Sins of Our Ancestral Empire
by Morninglight
Summary: Twenty-five years ago Cloud Ruler Temple fell to the Thalmor and the Blades were wiped out. Amongst them were the Aurelii, a clan descended from the Hero of Kvatch. And the Empire did nothing. The return of Alduin drags buried secrets to light and no one can come out with clean hands.
1. Burnt Cakes

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, fantastic racism, violence, misogyny, sexual harassment and fat-shaming, and mentions of child neglect. I got a little tired of canon!Lia and decided to write up one who wasn't so innately badass. Some bits of lore come from Michael Kirkbride's Tumblr.

…

 **Burnt Cakes**

There were worse jobs in the world than being the cook at a Legion border outpost. Lia knew _that_ from experience. So despite grabby hands and contemptuous gazes, she transformed military rations into edible meals for the garrison in Helgen and considered herself lucky to be so employed. Commander Tauria Julia kept the soldiers under control and the Thalmor passing through on their way to and from Cyrodiil, paid the civilian staff standard wages for skilled servants in a patrician household (two sets of clothing and new shoes every year with fifty septims every quarter in addition to bed and board), and ruled the town with the sort of benevolent corruption that benefited the Empire since Tiber Septim made it his own. If not for the Jerall Mountains being to the south instead of the north, she could pretend she was still in Bruma.

Life in Helgen was surprisingly slow for such a strategically important border town, one day bleeding into the next until Lia turned around and realised the air was a bit nippy in Evening Star, making it time to wear a thick shawl around her shoulders when she gathered snowberries and other wild herbs. A Nord mother, born and bred in Falkreath, gave her the ability to shrug off cold that had the Imperial and Redguard Legionnaires wearing heavy cloaks – but to hear the Skyrim soldiers tell it, her plump figure shielded her much like a horker's rolls of fat. From what she'd observed, the horker would be more pleasant company than a good many of the Legionnaires from the north.

So it wasn't until later she discovered the day that the world changed forever was the 17th of Last Seed in the 201st year of the Fourth Era, almost two hundred years to the day that Uriel Septim VII was assassinated by Daedric cultists. Lia recalled it being a slightly chillier than usual late summer's day with the only break in routine a command to cook up some pheasant in snowberry sauce for Commander Julia and break out the garum sauce for General Tullius, who slathered it on everything like the West Wealde plebeian that he was. Then one of the Legionnaires entered the kitchen, stole one of the cakes that were baking on the hearthstone, slapped her arse and informed her that Ulfric Stormcloak was being wheeled into Helgen for immediate execution.

Lia's attitude towards the Stormcloaks was… complicated. In a past that she dared not acknowledge or recall too clearly, she was the daughter and granddaughter of Blades, descended from the Hero of Kvatch herself. Her mother was a true Nord who worshipped Talos with every fibre of her being to the point of ignoring her Akaviri-eyed, Imperial-nosed offspring. Her uncle and stepmother had been assigned to rescuing the Jarl of Windhelm from Falinesti because he was a Tongue and the Blades' last Tongue, Master Wulfgar, had walked out in disgust when commanded to use his Voice as a weapon against the Thalmor. Five months after their disappearance, Cloud Ruler Temple fell to the goldskins.

She _should_ be screaming "For Talos!" as she ran headlong into the thick of battle. Her mother would certainly expect it of her and her grandfather too. Uncle Irkand would have advised poisoning Legion mead instead. He had been a very good assassin.

Instead, Lia would rather be left alone. Let her bake cakes and slather garum on pheasant, therefore ruining it utterly, for Legion officers. The Emperor's soldiers had the unofficial policy of protecting those they considered their own from the Thalmor, which suited Lia just fine.

But rumour painted her mother as one of the Stormcloaks' senior officers. That was, of course, if Sigdrifa Stormsword acknowledged the relationship. Kyne knew that she had enough reason to try and forget her time at Cloud Ruler.

Lia sighed and left the kitchen after putting one of the servers in charge. Whatever he was, Ulfric deserved to have a descendant of heroes watch his execution. If he died well, maybe he could go to Sovngarde.

General Tullius, a stocky Colovian short even by Imperial standards, was giving the bound, gagged Ulfric Stormcloak a tirade that no doubt had been written beforehand. A great master of preparation was Tullius but very poor to think on his feet.

The Jarl of Windhelm wore chainmail robes with bearskin trimming that likely weighed half of Lia's body weight but he stood proud, wine-bottle green eyes glaring defiantly at Tullius. He wouldn't be going alone to Sovngarde – several Stormcloaks would accompany him, including a tall, sinewy woman in middle age with a too-familiar profile. Lia swore under her breath and tugged her shawl up to cover her head, hoping that no one noticed the resemblance between her and the Stormsword. Then she flushed with shame because her first instinct was to hide.

 _You've been hiding for the past twenty-five years,_ she reminded herself grimly as Tullius gave the command for the Priestess of Arkay to grant the Stormcloaks last rites.

Of course, one of the Stormcloaks interrupted the woman's prayers and marched up to the headsman's block, taunting the Legionnaires on the way. Lia was sure he'd get toasted by Ysgramor when he got to Sovngarde. One swing of the axe and he was drinking with the gods.

Her mother was next, Arkay be merciful. Once she laid her head down, however, something swooped down and landed on the tower. Then it unfurled black wings… and Shouted.

Despite Tullius' command to see the townspeople to safety, it swiftly degenerated into everyone for themselves. Lia bolted for the Keep as the fucking _World-Eater_ decided to start his multicourse feast with a Helgen entrée. Running probably wouldn't save her in the end but if she died bravely, she'd wind up in Sovngarde with her soul as Alduin's dessert. She'd take her chances with a coward's death, thanks.

Lia reached the kitchen, the stench of burnt cakes filling her nostrils, and ran smack-bang into a couple Stormcloaks – including the very last person on Nirn she wanted to see. They were looting her cache of healing potions and the blond male spun around on seeing her. "Who are you?" he spat.

"Someone outrunning that big black bastard out there!" Lia retorted.

Sigdrifa Stormsword stiffened as she spoke and then turned, turquoise eyes that matched Lia's own widening dramatically. Front-on, her mother hadn't aged much, only gaining a few crow's feet around her hard eyes and harder mouth, with some streaks of silver in her long black hair. Anyone who looked between her and Lia would see the family resemblance in the high cheekbones, square jaw and thick, arching brows.

The too-familiar urge to look at her feet in shame hit Lia as the Stormsword took in her daughter's softly curved figure, well-mended coarse shift with a thick canvas skirt, and heavy grey goat's wool shawl. But instead she found the courage to look up, meet her mother's eyes with something resembling defiance, and dare her to make a comment when the world was dying around them.

"You might as well come with us," commanded Sigdrifa curtly. "I'm sure we can find some use for you."

"I love you too," Lia observed bitterly.

The blond Stormcloak grunted sourly. "Can we continue the family reunion once we've escaped the dragon?"

"Of course, Ice-Veins." Sigdrifa turned for the door that opened onto the corridor which led down to the interrogation chamber. Lia let her go first with the blond Stormcloak called Ice-Veins behind.

The sounds of fighting soon reached their ears as Sigdrifa swore. "Troll's blood, a torture chamber!" She ran down to help her Stormcloak friends, Ice-Veins on her heels. Lia took her time because if she escaped here, she didn't need to be executed for treason.

As she'd mused before, her relationship with the civil war was complicated.

Her mother was wiping blood off a Legion-issue gladius when Lia entered the torture chamber. "I suppose you're on the Legion's side," the Stormsword observed disgustedly.

"The Imperial Legion protects its people from the Thalmor," the cook retorted flatly. "So yes, I worked for them because I like breathing."

 _Heroes_ die _, Mother. I don't have the luxury of a martyr's death._ Not with the reality of the World-Eater doing his best to bring the Keep crashing down on them and somewhere, a Dragonborn ignorant of their destiny. Her grandfather had impressed the need for her to survive, no matter what.

"Do you worship Talos?" Ice-Veins asked suddenly.

"I acknowledge His divinity," Lia answered carefully. "But I give my worship to the Hearth Gods."

"Let it go, Stormsword," the blond advised the visibly seething Sigdrifa. "Not all women are meant to be shieldmaidens, eh?"

Sigdrifa sheathed her borrowed gladius forcefully, almost slicing her leather belt into pieces. "With her ancestry, I expected better," the last Shieldmaiden of Talos said grimly. "Her ancestors must be spinning in their graves."

Lia's mouth quirked to the side humourlessly. "I don't know. The Hero of Kvatch would appreciate the madness of her last descendant working as a cook."

As she expected, the mention of the Madgoddess silenced Sigdrifa and she stalked towards the deeper cells, which also led to the escape tunnel. That she knew it existed meant that the Stormcloaks had critical information on Legion facilities. If Tullius survived, he'd want to know that.

 _I'm half-tempted to bolt south for the border,_ Lia thought as she followed, Ice-Veins at her back. Tall and stereotypically handsome in the blond Nord way, he carried his iron war axe with the ease of a lumberjack and didn't seem particularly awed by Sigdrifa.

"I'm Ralof," he finally said as they passed the cells.

"Lia," she responded with a sigh. She wasn't giving him more than that.

She had to turn a little to squeeze through a passageway meant for lean, fit Colovian bodies instead of heavy Nord ones, and they entered a cavern where three Imperial soldiers were discussing orders. One of them was Hadvar, a newly promoted Quaestor with a soft voice and kind eyes who could always rustle up some venison or pheasants for the pot.

The broad-shouldered, brown-haired man finally commanded the other two Legionnaires to scout up ahead. Knowing her mother, Lia pushed past the Stormsword and called out to the Quaestor to spare his life – or at least save him from a dishonourable death. Both Stormcloaks were wounded where he was relatively fresh – and he had mentioned a childhood friend named Ralof.

"What are you doing with the Stormcloaks?" Hadvar asked, his hand flashing to the hilt of his gladius.

"One's my mother, much to both our regrets, and the other is your childhood friend Ralof," Lia answered as she walked out to join him.

"You little-" Sigdrifa hissed, only to be quelled by Ralof putting a calming hand on her shoulder.

"We're leaving and he won't be able to stop us," the Stormcloak announced flatly. "Our mission is to get to Windhelm and warn Galmar about the dragon."

"That wasn't just any dragon," Lia said grimly. "That was the World-Eater himself."

Hadvar sucked his breath in sharply. "How do you know that?"

"Short story is that my father's side of the family can trace their ancestry back to the Akaviri Dragonguard and I grew up hearing the prophecy for which they crossed the sea," Lia answered, meeting her mother's furious eyes. "I know you probably don't consider yourself a Blade any more, Mother, if you ever did – but you need to prepare the Stormcloaks for what's coming. Maybe the Dragonborn will come from their ranks."

"Or he could be a Legionnaire," Hadvar added quietly. "I can't stop you two from leaving, so just go. I need to warn Legate Rikke of what's going on."

If a Legionnaire had to be Dragonborn, Lia rather hoped that it was Hadvar. He was patient, steady and in command of his temper, something many pureblood Nords had trouble with.

 _And if a Stormcloak, Ralof isn't entirely stupid from the looks of it._ Lia sighed inwardly, wishing that she was somewhere else.

"Fine," Sigdrifa said after a tense silence. "Lia, you're coming with me-"

"No, I'm not," the cook interrupted. "I have other duties."

The Stormsword snorted contemptuously. "And how is a soft, fat milkdrinker going to do more than the true children of Skyrim?"

Lia smiled mirthlessly. "That's none of your business, Mother. If you don't trust me, kill me here and now."

Since kinslayers were rarely permitted into Sovngarde, Sigdrifa swore vilely and stalked up ahead. Ralof regarded Lia thoughtfully before he joined his commanding officer.

"I hope that the auxiliaries got out before those two find them," Hadvar said softly. "Are you alright?"

Without regard for modesty, Lia waded into the little stream that burbled at the bottom of the cave and washed a skirt wet with more than water as best she could. "I'll live," she replied with a sigh. "Quaestor-"

"I won't say anything if I can help it," Hadvar finished. "I won't send anyone to the Thalmor."

"Thank you." Lia wrung out her canvas skirt and the bottom of her shift before climbing out of the stream. "We should split up. You need to get to Solitude and I… need to find someone."

"Who?"

"Someone who will know how to kill a dragon."


	2. Giant's Toes

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for violence, fat-shaming, death and fantastic racism with discussions of past child neglect and emotional trauma. My head-canon revolves around some of the characters being rather more educated than the game makes them, especially Balgruuf, and Alduin being a prominent part of Nord folklore. 'Ghosts of our Fathers', written by luminare_ardua and YellowShapedBox, has inspired this particular interpretation of Arius Aurelius.

…

 **Giant's Toes**

Four Companions, three of them werewolves, were somewhat excessive when it came to killing a giant but Irkand Aurelius believed in superior force when facing an enemy, especially when one of his team was inexperienced. Ria had it in her to be a good Companion, perhaps even a member of the Circle (and if she so chose, a werewolf) but she was still half-trained by the rigorous standards that Irkand laid out for himself and the heirs of Ysgramor. Quality, not quantity, was the credo of the Companions – and Irkand made certain that each warrior he trained would be worthy of their Skyforge Steel weapon.

It was a brisk late summer's day, the dragon-headed arches of Bleak Falls Barrow brooding down upon the lush plains of Skyrim's heartland. Born in the southern Jeralls, Irkand still found the grasslands beautiful in day or night – when they ranged from gold to green to red with splashes of colour from flowers or the silvered hues under the moons' pitiless glow. It was as good a day as any to send a giant back to whatever demon saw fit to make him.

The creature had been dispatched, Ria landing the arrow to the eye that killed it, when something big and black sailed above with a dreadful roar. It continued to the northwest, spike-scaled wings sailing majestically on the wind, and Irkand allowed himself a soft curse that was perhaps tinged with fear.

"Was that… a dragon?" Aela asked, her voice tightly controlled.

"Not just a dragon, I fear, but the World-Eater himself upon the wing," Irkand answered with a sigh. "We live in the end times, it seems."

"This is what happens when you southerners call on the Dragon God and wake him up," Aela countered without malice. She followed the oldest beliefs of Skyrim, worshipping hearth gods and testing gods and the Prince of Hunters who stood apart from the deities of the Nords.

" _I_ never worshipped Akatosh," Irkand responded mildly. "We should hack the toes off this thing and sell them to Arcadia. They will fetch us some coin."

Ria regarded him strangely. "It's the end of the world and you're worried about giant's toes?"

"We haven't been eaten by the World-Eater yet and it may be that the toes of this beast will make the potion which gives the Dragonborn greater health and strength with which to end him," Irkand corrected her with the same mildness. "Eyes on the prey, whelp, not on the horizon."

Farkas, who had remained silent during all of this, went to cut the toes off and see what else could be scavenged from the giant's carcass. Many of them wore heavy furs adorned with bits and pieces, like a Riekling of Solstheim, that had value only to them. The extra loot was why the Companions kept their prices reasonable, even in the wake of a civil war with much reduced manpower available amongst the Hold guards.

Ria flushed and Irkand decided to leaven the criticism with well-deserved praise. "Your eyeshot was placed as perfectly as Aela herself could wish it," he told the Nibenese girl. "You stood your ground without flinching, even when the giant's club brought up dirt and dust to blind us."

The pleased smile that crossed her face would have made any parent proud. Orphaned like so many children during and after the Great War, Ria had come north to Skyrim to pursue a dream of honour and worship Talos in discreet peace. In her enthusiasm and general optimism, Irkand saw a great deal of his niece as she could have been, and perhaps he was a little paternalistic towards her. Of course, he'd not tell her until she reached the Circle and could become privy to all the secrets of the heroes of Jorrvaskr.

"Irkand is right," Aela confirmed. "All of your shots struck the giant, no matter where he stood and the wind of his movements. It's no easy thing to stand and shoot an arrow at something that could flatten you with a blow."

The former Blade bowed to his Shield-Sister in recognition of her superior skill as an archer. Irkand had mastered every one-handed blade that came to his notice and held acceptable skill with the two-handed greatsword, but his talent for bludgeoning weapons and the axe was mediocre at best and the running joke was that when it came to archery, he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with Hircine giving him step-by-step instructions. Vilkas, the master of greatsword, battle-axe and warhammer, had given up trying to teach him how to wield the signature weapons of the Five Hundred Companions and Aela laughed every time someone suggested she teach Irkand the bow and crossbow.

Ria was beaming now, as well she should, and both the elder Companions found themselves returning the smile. With the grim Athis, dour Njada and drunken Torvar as whelps, Ria's enthusiasm made the meadhall a much less dreary place.

"Of course, now with the return of the World-Eater, I'm going to have to drill you in hitting rapidly moving targets in the air," Aela continued with a slight smile. "If arrows can bring dragons down…"

"Farkas and Vilkas can hack them to pieces," Irkand finished. "Only the Dragonborn can kill a dragon permanently, but we can keep one of those oversized lizards out of the battle for a good while."

He was descended from dragonslayers and while he wouldn't consider himself equal to one of the legendary Dragonguard, Irkand did fancy himself capable of finding a way to kill any sort of enemy. It had been what he was raised and trained to do after all.

Ria gulped, reminded again of the danger that the world faced, and nodded. Irkand, for the sake of her honour, chose not to mention the greenish cast to her pale olive skin. He really didn't want to contemplate a battle against the World-Eater without the Dragonborn at his side himself.

"We better go tell Kodlak and Skjor," rumbled Farkas, his task completed.

"Indeed," Irkand agreed as he turned from the giant's carcass. "Perhaps the Harbinger will foresee something that will help us find the Dragonborn."

"Why are we looking for the Dragonborn?" Ria asked as she picked up the pace to match Irkand's long Redguard stride.

"Because we are the premier warriors of Skyrim and sorely need the boost in honour that having the Dragonborn in our ranks will bring," Irkand answered pragmatically. "Not to mention the fact that they will need some rather intense training within a very short period of time."

"Maybe you're the Dragonborn," Farkas suggested with a grin.

Irkand pegged his husband with a wry brown gaze. "I sincerely hope not. I would have to enter the civil war and both sides endlessly irritate me. There would be a lot of dead people before I was done."

They reached the gate, which had been slammed shut (as if that would stop a dragon from raining fire upon the unprotected wooden houses below). A woman, either tall for an Imperial or a bit on the short side for a Nord, was arguing with the lantern-jawed gate guard. "I was at Helgen, dammit!" she yelled in the man's face. "Let me in – I have to warn the Jarl!"

"Orders were no one gets inside," the gate guard retorted.

"I hope that doesn't include the Companions," Irkand observed with deceptive mildness.

The woman spun around with a swirl of canvas skirt and cotton shift. Her garments were plain and worn but mended neatly, the undyed fabric standard for Legion issue to their civilian staff in Skyrim. Irkand noted it absently as he took in the olive-bronze skin, black hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of the neck and familiar turquoise eyes. It had been nearly six years since he last saw Lia, gaunt as a spring bear with the haunted gaze of one too many close calls, and the solid rations of the Legion had done her good judging by the curvaceousness of her form.

"The World-Eater's back, I ran into Mother and Helgen was obliterated," she told him in rapid Akaviri, listing the items in order of importance.

"Judging by your expression, the World-Eater didn't have the good grace to eat the Stormsword," Irkand noted dryly.

"Nor did he eat Ulfric," Lia confirmed with a sigh.

The gate guard looked between them, noting the obvious physical resemblance in their beaky noses and almond-shaped eyes. "Commander Caius said nobody…" he observed uncertainly.

"I'm _sure_ when Jarl Balgruuf discovers that critical news involving a dragon attack on Helgen was delayed because you were following orders, he'll understand," Aela told the guard crisply. His brethren in the pack all knew a little Akaviri and Aela was sharp enough to pick out Helgen from Lia's rapid chatter.

It took a stronger man than the gate guard to defy Aela's lupine stare and commanding tone. He gave the order to open the gate; the iron-bound wood creaked and groaned, protesting their opening like Torvar did at morning exercises.

With them cracked open enough to let a few people through, Irkand led Lia and his fellow Companions into the city and ignored the rapid slamming of the gates behind him. A word to Kodlak and Skjor would see the gate guard get a lesson in politeness to Companions soon enough.

If Windhelm, grey and grim, was a city built by the Nords in the long winter of their anger towards the mer, then Whiterun had been shaped in glory and prosperity of the race's too brief summer of cooperating with other nations. It was a town of gold, tan and cream, every wooden surface carved with symbols of health, wealth and peace, the fieldstone road winding like a well-fed snake through a summer field rich with prey. Both the Legion and the Stormcloaks wanted this place, wanted its golden fields and golden banners and golden hoard, and Jarl Balgruuf was trying to deny them as long as possible. Soon he would have to choose a side barring a direct miracle from the gods – Irkand pitied the man for when that day came.

"Ria, Aela, go and brief the Circle on what happened today," Irkand commanded as they paused near the path that circled around the withered Gildergreen.

The Huntress nodded and led the Nibenese girl up the stairs to Jorrvaskr.

"Farkas, go and have a word to Eorlund. I think Ria will be undergoing her Proving before the winter comes and best her sword be ready by then."

His husband nodded in that easy-going way of his, smiled at Lia – who returned the expression with a hint of strain – and loped up to the ancient forge where the Companions' weapons were beaten on an anvil of primal magic and earth-born fire.

"I'll come with you to Dragonsreach, if you want," Irkand told Lia. "If Balgruuf knows you're family to me, he'll take you seriously."

"It would be nice to have someone who doesn't think I'm a milkdrinker at my back," Lia replied tightly. "Mother was… less than impressed I was cooking for the Legion."

The former Blade grimaced. Sigdrifa, daughter of the then-Jarl of Falkreath, had been a poor match for his brother Rustem and he for her. Both – and his father Arius – had high expectations for Lia, though in different directions – her mother wanted her to be a Shieldmaiden like her, her father a Blade and her grandfather an Imperial consort to Titus Mede or one of his bastard sons.

"At least she listened when I told her that the dragon was the World-Eater," Lia continued in Akaviri as they climbed the stairs to Dragonsreach. "Quaestor Hadvar's gone to warn the Legion and Mother will tell the Stormcloaks. I managed to avoid taking a side by saying I had other plans and if Mother didn't trust me, she was welcome to kill me."

"Wise of you," Irkand agreed. "What are you going to do now?"

"Warn the Jarl," Lia responded tersely. "And hope you have an idea of how to kill a dragon."

"Of _course_ I do," Irkand laughed as he opened the doors to the Jarl's palace. "I would be a very poor Companion if I didn't."

He was rather proud of his niece's calm. The Lia who came to Skyrim from Bruma had been a flinching emotional wreck who shied away even from Farkas, the gentlest of the Companions. The past few years had been good for her mental health as much as her physical health.

"We could use a cook at Jorrvaskr," he said, entering the richly adorned Great Hall. "Tilma's getting on."

"I can't," Lia replied softly. "There's too much to do."

Irkand pursed his lips. "You remember more of Esbern's stories than you let on, don't you?"

She paused and nodded slowly. "I do. With the loremasters dead…"

 _I'm the only one who might be able to help the Dragonborn discover what they need to know._

Irkand ground his teeth in frustration. Lia wasn't a Blade, wasn't a hero – hell, she wasn't even a warrior's left pinkie finger. She had a little Destruction magic from her Imperial and Redguard ancestry, a knack for moving silently honed by a harsh life since the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple, and maybe some half-remembered remnants of Blades lore. In short, she was a civilian and it rubbed against every belief that the Companion possessed to let her go into danger and perhaps worse than danger. If she died heroically, she would become Alduin's prey in Sovngarde.

"I don't suppose there's any way I could talk you into being based in Whiterun, at least?" he asked, choosing his words as carefully as he'd once selected weapons for an execution. His relationship with his niece was a fragile thing despite their affection for each other, him being unable to forgive himself for not protecting the most innocent member of his family and her unwilling to articulate what exactly she endured from the fall of the Temple to her reappearance in Skyrim in 4E194.

"I need to be mobile," she immediately answered, shooting down his hope that she might be a little bit sensible about this. "I… remember bits and pieces of what the Dragonborn's supposed to do, especially when they're being trained by the Greybeards. I should probably-"

"What is the meaning of this?" Irileth, a Dunmer with scarlet eyes and hair renowned for her paranoia across three nations, demanded of them as she managed to sneak up without Irkand noticing. "The Jarl isn't receiving visitors today, even from the Companions."

Irkand smiled slightly, meeting the Nerevarine's ancient ageless eyes. "We have word from Helgen," he informed the huscarl. "My niece – was there."

" _You_ survived Helgen?" Irileth asked, winglike brow shooting up as she took in Lia's rough garments and distinct lack of musculature. "Come along then, the Jarl will want to speak to you."

Irkand followed the two without invitation. It would take Irileth herself to throw him out and Balgruuf wouldn't want to insult the Companions in such a manner.

"-Fuck the Jarl of Falkreath!" Balgruuf snarled, his temper in fine mettle today. "I want guards in Riverwood. I won't stand idly by while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people!"

Avenicci, a balding Colovian with an unfortunately beaky nose even by their standards, looked ready to argue the point but wisely fell silent under Balgruuf's coldly angry gaze.

It was easy to forget that under the fine brocade robes and golden circlet set with rubies and emeralds lay the rangy, scarred frame of a middle-aged Nord who'd seen his fair share of battle, albeit against bandits and the odd Forsworn raid. Silver-threaded platinum-blond hair fell to his shoulders with a warrior's braid on each side, piercing ice-blue eyes taking in Irkand and Lia with one glance, aquiline features lined with stress and the years. Since the death of his kinsman Torygg at the last Moot, Balgruuf had aged.

Lia fell into a curtsey more graceful than Irkand expected, back straight as suited a Colovian noblewoman of high nobility (which, if the Aurelii hadn't been obliterated by the Thalmor, she would be) and head bent in the precise angle of a lady approaching a lord of slightly greater rank. Once, the Aurelii had been the Lords of the Pale Pass as well as the Grand Masters and heart of the Blades.

In one motion, she was transformed from plump Legion cook running from a great threat to a noblewoman fallen upon hard times through no fault of her own coming to warn a fellow noble of terrible danger. Irkand never could understand how she'd managed to absorb and retain a fraction of the complicated etiquette Ralinde Sun-Golden had expected of the Aurelii women. As a man destined for the Blades, he'd only needed the basics, but the tentative plans of their clan elders had depended on Lia being the epitome of an Imperial lady.

Balgruuf responded to those subtle cues, leaning forward in his throne instead of lounging indolently with one leg out as he was wont to do, meeting Lia's eyes once she'd lifted her head. "You were at Helgen?" he asked courteously, having swallowed his temper in favour of politesse.

"I was, Jarl Balgruuf," Lia confirmed as she straightened from the curtsey. "The World-Eater showed up just as Sigdrifa Stormsword and Ulfric Jarl of Windhelm were to be sent to the block."

"Figures he'd be involved with this," Balgruuf observed with a sigh. "So it's the end times?"

"Apparently so," Lia said, smoothing her canvas skirt reflexively. "Don't forget, Jarl Balgruuf, the Dragonborn was also promised at the end of the cycle."

"True." The Jarl leaned back in his throne. "So you're Irkand's kin?"

"My niece," Irkand said before Lia could. "Daughter of the Stormsword."

"What in the hells beyond and below are you doing?" Lia hissed under her breath in Akaviri.

"Establishing your place in Skyrim's nobility," Irkand answered mildly as Balgruuf's eyes sharpened. "You are related to the Jarl of Falkreath and if Siddgeir should die, there's a chance the Stag Throne will fall to you."

"Has the Madgoddess graced you recently?" she retorted.

"If you're going to run around chasing the Dragonborn, then I will do my best to make certain you're adequately protected," Irkand informed her. "It will be in the Jarl's best interests to support you."

Lia's answer came in the form of an Akaviri phrase she'd likely picked up from her father, because Irkand never used such language around children.

"Since my dear uncle's decided to nail my name to a banner for all the various enemies of our clan to see, I might as well introduce myself formally," Lia said to the Jarl of Whiterun, whose eyes had narrowed at the whispered exchange in another language. "I am Aurelia Callaina, though I prefer to be called Lia."

Avenicci's eyes brightened as Balgruuf's eyebrow rose. "Your mother is Sigdrifa Stormsword?"

"And my father was Rustem Aurelius, son of the Blades' Grand Master Arius Aurelius, who was the grandson to Aurelia Northstar, Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil, She who mantled Sheogorath to become the Madgoddess." Lia's smile was a humourless thing. "I was asking my uncle if he'd been visited by our ancestress lately."

Balgruuf snorted in amusement. Then his expression sobered as he realised the truth of Lia's presence in the hall. "Avenicci, Irileth, this will stay between us. If anyone speaks of it, have them executed."

"My lord, we should surely inform the Legion," Avenicci said unctuously. "This… lady… is one of the great lost heiresses of Cyrodiil-"

"And a prime target on the Thalmor's shit list just by dint of existence," Lia interrupted acidly.

"If word reaches the Legion, I will have no choice but to kill anyone foolish to threaten my niece if Irileth doesn't beat me to it," Irkand told the Steward with the soft, mild voice that tended to worry people for some reason. "The same goes for the Stormcloaks."

"Good point," Balgruuf growled. "Besides, the Aurelii's relationship with the Emperor was… complicated."

"Nothing complicated about it," Lia observed in the same acid tone. "Grandfather had ambitions and Titus Mede felt threatened by them."

She and Balgruuf exchanged a glance that Irkand didn't quite understand. Politics had never been his strong point and if what Lia was implying was true…

…The reason for the lack of warning given to the Blades after the White-Gold Concordat became chillingly clear.

"Indeed," Balgruuf agreed. "My father had letters in his study from the Aurelii. Letters that, in some eyes, could be interpreted as treasonous."

Several of his father's actions before and during the Great War crystallised into a clarity that cut Irkand to the quick. The marriage alliance with Falkreath, the Hold that anchored the other end of the Pale Pass, the secret meetings with the Count of Bruma, even some of the murders that Irkand had been commanded to do.

The permitted devastation of Bruma, Cloud Ruler Temple and the Aurelii fortress in Pale Pass at the hands of the Thalmor.

Irkand found it in himself to look at Lia's face and found a mixture of sympathy and compassion in her turquoise gaze.

"I don't know what to say," he whispered, all thoughts of the approaching doom driven from his mind.

"Then say nothing," Balgruuf advised grimly. "Focus on the World-Eater as I assume the lady will be doing?"

Lia met his pointed glance with a sharp nod. "I'm not an adventurer but I am something of an amateur scholar. I'm hoping that I can help the Dragonborn find whatever they need to know to defeat the World-Eater."

 _You're a fucking Legion cook,_ Irkand wanted to scream at his niece. Some of the reasons why she hadn't embraced her birthright were now clear – and he'd ruined her work because he wanted to protect her.

The Jarl nodded. "Irkand, I _do_ have a job for the Companions. Farengar, my court wizard, tells me that there's a map of the old dragon burial grounds in Bleak Falls Barrow. I – we – need that map."

Irkand snapped out of his shock and nodded. He had a mission. "I and Farkas will get it," he agreed. "What's the pay?"

"Standard heirloom retrieval fee," Balgruuf said. "And my patronage for your niece, the bastard of your sister-in-law's misspent youth and the scholar who likes to cook."

The former Blade nodded yet again. "She doesn't leave Whiterun without a physical guard."

"Done. If she proves competent, she might yet become a Thane in her own right with a huscarl sworn to protect her." Balgruuf spread his hands, golden rings glittering on every finger and his thumbs.

"I'm right here," Lia observed dryly.

The Jarl raised an eyebrow. "This agreement isn't to your liking, Lady Lia?"

"I didn't say that. I just don't like being treated as if I can't take care of myself." Lia folded her arms and regarded both men with more stubbornness than wisdom, especially given the grief of her life.

Irkand refrained from mentioning that in his experience, she had trouble doing just that. Lia was already annoyed with him and he didn't need her to lose her temper.

"My apologies," Balgruuf said quietly. "I will ask you in earnest then – is this agreement acceptable to you?"

"It is," Lia answered. Irkand didn't understand why she didn't just say yes the first time.

"Good." Balgruuf met the eyes of everyone near the dais. "If I hear one word about this, I will investigate for treason. Is that clear?"

The high members of Balgruuf's court and the nearby guards nodded, as did Lia and Irkand.

"Dismissed." Balgruuf flicked his fingers in that dismissive manner all Jarls had.

"You better go to Jorrvaskr," Lia advised as she gave her uncle a hug. "Until the Dragonborn shows up, and perhaps even then, you're going to be the muscle."

"Story of my life," Irkand muttered, allowing some of the old bitterness from his years as a Blade into his voice. "Lia, will you be alright?"

"I'll survive. I always do."

Her answer wasn't reassuring but Irkand didn't dare bring it up in front of Balgruuf. Instead he bowed and left Dragonsreach.

There was a lot to discuss with his brethren in the pack.


	3. Cyrodiiliac Brandy

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussion of genocide, fantastic racism, childhood neglect and trauma. I haven't decided who the Dragonborn is yet – if you guys have any ideas, feel free to comment! (Or not – I'll figure it out in a couple chapters).

…

 **Cyrodiiliac Brandy**

Once Irkand was gone, Balgruuf took the Companion's niece up to the Great Porch, snagging a bottle of Cyrodiiliac brandy on the way. Between Alduin and the revelations of the day, he needed a stiff drink and imagined that the lady would too.

Aurelia Callaina – or Lia, as she preferred – was striking – but then, most of the Jarl's bloodline from Falkreath were with their turquoise eyes and dark hair. From cheekbones down to jawline, she was pure Kreathling with the high bones, square jaw and generous mouth; in the shape of her almond-shaped eyes and aquiline nose, he saw Irkand and a hint of Arius Aurelius, who he'd met once as a lad before travelling to High Hrothgar. The olive-bronze tone to her skin was peculiar to the old Colovian Estates, which ranged from Falkreath down to Bruma and west to Hammerfell. Her figure, the buxom breasts and soft waist and wide hips, would look better in the long tunics and overdresses of Skyrim than the richly draped traditional garments of Cyrodiil.

"Poor Uncle Irkand," she sighed, husky alto clipped at the consonants like an Imperial noble but burring the 'R' like a Kreathling or Bruma Nord. The accent suited the contradiction of highborn and menial that she presented. "I thought he knew."

Balgruuf grunted sourly and poured himself a generous measure of the brandy. When he offered the bottle to Lia, she shook her head and he put the bottle of precious liquor on the table. "I am not pleased by this," he growled. "I burned those letters from your grandfather and buried the ashes."

"Wise," Lia said with a humourless quirk of her lips. "My grandfather played his games at the worst possible time and both the Blades and the Empire paid for it."

The Jarl of Whiterun looked over the golden-green plains with its bright swathes of late summer flowers he was sworn to protect with his life and imagined them blackened with the grassfires the Stormcloaks or Legion would surely light to starve his people out. He imagined stakes of heads and rows of crosses in the wholesale slaughter by petty victors for the sake of a god. He imagined Alduin perched on the Throat of the World where Kyne breathed down the Nords into Nirn, setting the land ablaze because he wanted a cooked dinner.

"In the Great War, Skyrim lost half its able-bodied warriors and a full third of its civilians from the famine which followed so many going to fight for Talos and then the purges," he observed softly. "I hear it was worse in Cyrodiil."

"Two thirds of the Legion dead, a full half of the civilian populace during the war, and another quarter dead or fled during the purges," Lia confirmed grimly. "I don't know what it's like south of the Jeralls, but Bruma is… a little slice of Oblivion. Neighbour rats out neighbour for a handful of gold from the Thalmor, the Thieves' Guild is the closest thing to law and order, and Count Iannus is too busy kissing goldskin arse to rebuild the town."

Balgruuf drank his shot of brandy to conceal the noise of shock he'd have made otherwise. It explained much of why the Legion was trying to hold onto Skyrim. He cleared his throat – the brandy wasn't as good as he once could have afforded – and revised his assessment of Lia. The woman was tougher than she looked to have survived such a vicious environment.

 _If Ulfric had half a plan to rebuild Skyrim after a civil war and the withdrawal of the Legion, I would follow him wholeheartedly,_ Balgruuf thought as the silence stretched into an eternity. _But he has none… and Alduin has returned._

"I thought Blades were supposed to forswear all titles on joining the order," he said, changing the subject.

"After the Oblivion Crisis, my great-great-grandmother was made Champion of Cyrodiil and the Aurelii's command of the Akaviri fortress we found in Pale Pass confirmed," she replied. "I don't know what happened in between the death of Julius Martin – the Northstar's son – at the hands of the Thalmor and my grandfather ordering an escalation of the shadow war against the Dominion until it broke out into true war."

Lia smiled humourlessly once more when she read the question in Balgruuf's eyes. "Julius Martin and Arius Aurelius were both mages adept in Restoration and Alteration. I'm told with the right combination of spells and a moderate lifestyle, a non-Breton mage can live for two hundred years or so, and Bretons up to three hundred."

"And your ancestress is the Madgoddess?"

"Yeah and She tends to, ah, intervene when possible." Lia's lips were now pursed and the resemblance to Sigdrifa in that moment was uncanny. "I… called on Her for help once. It left me a nervous wreck, literally, because calling on the fury of the Madgoddess means forfeiting your own mental health for a time."

"Makes sense," Balgruuf agreed. "Berserker fury?"

"Something like that. Strength of three men, inability to feel pain and a mist over your eyes the colour of the blood you'll paint the walls with." Lia's voice was grim. "The other options were suicide and being handed over to the Thalmor."

Balgruuf would have taken the option Lia had too. He'd done his best to keep the goldskins out of Whiterun and his citizens worshipping Talos discreetly but idiots like Heimskr only invited a purge and didn't give a damn about what it would do to everyone else.

"Farengar knows a fair bit about dragons," the Jarl said, yet again changing the subject to the most pertinent topic. "How much do you know?"

The woman sighed, looking up at the faint outline of High Hrothgar. "I know the general outline of what the Dragonborn has to do in order to be recognised by the Greybeards, the location of the Wall of Alduin, which is the pictorial representation of the Dragon War and the fated battle against the World-Eater, and the meaning – roughly – of what the wall means."

More than Balgruuf expected but less than he hoped. "I have enough gold to bring copies of every book about dragons to Whiterun. I want you and Farengar to go over them and find out everything you can. Gods of hearth and testing willing, we will know who the Dragonborn is soon, and give them the knowledge they need."

"And put them in your debt," Lia noted dryly.

"A Dragonborn Thane might keep the Legion and Stormcloaks out of my city," Balgruuf admitted shamelessly.

"Or be a hell of a bargaining chip if you choose a side," she pointed out.

"As the Jarl, I have to use whatever weapon I get a hold of to protect my Hold." He felt that Lia deserved to know that.

"Am I weapon, bargaining chip or temporary employee?" she countered, folding her arms.

"I have yet to decide," he confessed. "It will depend on what you show yourself to be."

"I can work with that," she said pragmatically. "I just ask that if you do decide to sell me out to the Thalmor, give me a couple days' head start."

"That is the _one_ thing I won't do," he said, a little nettled at her assumption. "The Empire, maybe, but not the goldskins."

"I'm sorry. It's just… yeah. In Bruma, you learn the depths of which people will go to survive."

There was a confession in that statement, one Balgruuf chose not to examine too closely.

He also had other thoughts. Titus Mede II was old and his only surviving son a bastard, though one with good connections. Even if particular claims concerning his bloodline that Arius Aurelius had made weren't true, the lineage of the Champion of Cyrodiil was a powerful symbol of a more glorious past in the Imperial Province.

Irkand's careless announcement had thrown a rather large boulder into Tamrielic politics and the frustration was that the Companion would never understand the repercussions.

But oh how his niece and the Jarl of Whiterun did.

He poured himself another shot of brandy. Decisions needed to be made and soon.

…

The snifter had been created by a master glassmaker in Wayrest, its crystalline facets glimmering with a subtle edge of Imperial scarlet. Within the snifter was Cyrodiiliac brandy of the finest kind, reserved only for the Emperor and his close relatives – unless there was a point to be made. Unfortunately for the court, there was none to be made today or perhaps even this week. Titus Mede II, Emperor of Tamriel, had too much to contemplate as he sat in the study of Count Iannus in Bruma.

For the master of a town that had teetered on the edge of poverty since the withdrawal of the Blades and then crashed over into bloody ruin during the Thalmor's purge, the study was far too sumptuous with its panels of exotic wood from Valenwood, rich Khajiit-style carpets and the golden eagle displayed prominently on the fireplace's mantelpiece, a gift from Iannus' Dominion overlords. Titus almost wished the fur-clad barbarians in Skyrim would run over Castle Bruma and crush it into stone dust as a punishment for the Count of Bruma's utter capitulation.

 _Damn you, Arius, why did you force me to take the steps I did?_ Raging at a man dead for twenty-five years, his skull displayed prominently on the desk of the Thalmor Ambassador back in the Imperial City, was cathartic albeit profitless. But in the days since the dire promise of a Talos worshipper hung from the cross in Castle Bruma's courtyard, a Stormcloak fanatic who'd snuck past Helgen to rile up the Nords of the town, the Emperor had found himself pondering the actions of over two decades ago.

Whether the truth of Aurelii claims to Septim ancestry were true or not, Titus Mede couldn't allow the lineage of the Hero of Kvatch to take power in the Great War. If Arius had been reasonable, that granddaughter of his wedded to Gaius when she came of age, the Aurelii throwing the support of the Blades behind the dynasty that won the Ruby Throne in the Stormcrown Interregnum-

The delicate snifter shattered under Titus' grip, crystal shards and brandy scattering everywhere, blood from where the broken pieces cut into his age-frail flesh falling onto _The Talos Mistake_ which was displayed almost as prominently as the golden eagle by Iannus.

Appropriate, really. High Rock was brilliant yet fragile, prone to shatter with the least amount of outside force. The traitor Redguards had the audacity to secede from the Empire which wearied the Dominion down for them – and then to soundly defeat the goldskins, making Hammerfell an example he didn't need. Morrowind was mostly independent, only a few sad districts paying more than lip service to the Empire. Valenwood, Black Marsh, Elseweyr and Alinor lost centuries ago. And now Skyrim, the birthplace of Tiber fucking Septim, the greatest source of muscle for labour and the Legion in the Empire, was rebelling under a barbarian who practiced the crudest, most ancient form of magic possible – one that had been banned by the Medes because it was impossible to control.

Titus sighed and helped himself to one of Iannus' silk handkerchiefs to bind his hand. If not for the first Emperor, he wouldn't have a throne to sit on, but the man who would be called a god one day hadn't done enough purging of the Nords' inherent barbarism. The runemasters, the seeresses, the cunning folk had been purged and absorbed into the Imperial religious and magical systems… but the Nords still continued to revere the Tongues in the form of the silent, pacifistic monks on top of the tallest mountain in Tamriel. Tiber Septim should have obliterated them from memory and turned the Nords into tall Colovians.

 _Civilisation worked wonders for the Orcs,_ he mused. The green-skinned mer wisely remained loyal, their smithcraft and strength serving the Imperials as it should, and benefited from it. If only the Nords had so much intelligence…

It was too late for Titus Mede to mend things. But he could set plans in motion that would see the Nords brought to heel and if need be, broken for the good of the Empire.

The Emperor swept aside the bloodied mess on Iannus' desk and snapped the fingers of his unwounded hand for a servant. Time to write some particular letters and give Skyrim a taste of what the Imperial Province had endured.


	4. Expenses

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm not sure yet who the Dragonborn will be – contenders include Lia, Irkand, Balgruuf, Jenassa, Uthgerd, Lydia, Farkas, Sigdrifa, Delphine and Stump.

…

 **Expenses**

Lia was grateful that she'd taken the time to get the Mage's Blessing from the Guardian Stones because it became blindingly clear after a couple days that her magical skills were going to be the best way of staying alive. Self-trained to begin with, her spellcraft had atrophied in her years as a Legion cook, though her alchemy had improved because the Legion healers were all too busy to create healing potions for the civilian staff. Balgruuf took the same laissez-faire attitude to patronage as he did to permitting businesses to ruin within Whiterun – so long as it was profitable and at least publicly respectable, he asked no questions.

The Hold guards had taken a hit with the civil war nibbling about the Jarl of Whiterun's borders and bandits setting up shop in the half-dozen camps, ruins and mines that were scattered around the plains. While certainly professional, the Companions were both expensive and stretched thin, leaving large holes in Balgruuf's ability to defend his Hold and people from the depredations of lawless men and mer. Trade, already lessened thanks to the civil war, was now little more than a trickle of pack-peddlers and farmers with wheelbarrows of vegetables. Prices were already slowly creeping up and it wasn't even autumn yet. People would starve come the winter if something wasn't done.

For the third time since she came to Whiterun, Lia overheard Balgruuf arguing with Avenicci over the finances, especially with the increased guard presence at Riverwood. In a normal season, the adventurers (sellswords by another name) would be bringing in loot from the bandits they killed and trading it for meat, mead and somewhere to stay. Whiterun's traders would repair or scrap the loot, turning it into trade goods that could be sent to other towns or kept as collateral for bigger bargains. If the stuff was especially good or magical in nature, it could be used to pay an adventurer without actually dipping into the Jarl's purse or to grant a new Thane or huscarl an appropriate weapon. Companions, of course, were paid in cold hard coin.

"We need to remove all extraneous expenses!" Avenicci urged for the fifth or sixth time. "If it can't turn us a profit, get rid of it!"

"I have made promises and I will not become an oathbreaker for mere coin!" Balgruuf barked in reply.

"What about sending that Aurelii woman to the Companions? Her uncle's there and she's not our problem."

"Her knowledge on dragons supplements Farengar's own. And I have offered her guest-right."

"My lord, you are sheltering someone whose family was declared traitor. A family, I might add, that nearly dragged yours into treason."

Avenicci had his points, Lia was willing to concede. From the little she could ascertain, her father had approached the southern Jarls of Skyrim – Dengeir of Falkreath, Laila Law-Giver of Riften and Balgruuf's father, who'd shared his name with the cognomen of 'the Lesser' – and some border lords of Hammerfell to support his bid for the Ruby Throne. Or the bid of his sons, whichever one should survive the war with the Thalmor…

"I have offered her protection, Avenicci." There was a pause as Balgruuf either inhaled deeply or sighed explosively. "I will, however, see what happens after Irkand delivers the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow to Farengar."

"Thank you, my lord." Avenicci's tone got a little more chipper. "I have some ideas on how we can raise revenue…"

Lia took herself off after that. So far, she'd done nothing but rehash well-known draconic lore with Farengar and practice a few Destruction spells on the practice dummies that lined the Great Porch, where once a dragon had been captured and held. Avenicci had some right to be concerned, both politically and financially, and the less she did, the more she fell into Balgruuf's debt.

Downstairs, she saw a wiry Breton woman in leather armour with a lock of greying blonde hair falling from the hood of her woollen cloak poring over a book with Farengar. The mage, whose sarcasm made for some amusing conversations (the one about the potential mating habits of dragons never ceased to make her laugh), looked up and offered a nod. "Ah, and here is our other dragon expert," he said cheerfully.

The Breton looked up and despite a few lines around eyes and mouth, Delphine Revanche still had the same deceptively delicate, heart-shaped features that belied her absolute mercilessness and ambition. In some ways, she'd made for a better wife to the athletic, unambitious Rustem than the dour, devout Sigdrifa, and had never done Lia wrong. If only by ignoring the child who was constantly underneath everyone's feet.

" _You_ survived Helgen?" the former Second Blade observed with some surprise and scepticism. Farengar had been talking, probably unaware that Delphine had been pumping him for information the whole time.

"So did Mother," Lia said sweetly, unable to resist prodding the woman after her tone.

Delphine made a small noise in the back of her throat and decided not to grace the pointed comment with a reply. "My employers will be happy with the information from the tablet when it arrives."

"Irkand and Farkas of the Companions are on it," Farengar assured her cheerfully. "I look forward to more in-depth studies on the dragons."

Lia rolled her eyes heavenward and noticed Delphine doing the same. Dragons were immortal, nigh-invulnerable engines of destruction. Meeting one up close would not be… enjoyable.

"Well, the draugr will be deader and the place cleaned out of anything portable by the time those two are done," Delphine observed blandly. "Mind if I borrow the other dragon expert? She might know a few things you don't."

"Hardly," Farengar said dryly. "But still, her parents were Blades. Perhaps she might have some information new to you and your employers."

"The Great Porch is free," Lia told Delphine, refraining from sending Farengar a death-glare. He might know more on the dragons themselves but _she_ was rather more familiar with the Prophecy of the Dragonborn than he.

"Fantastic." Delphine nodded to Farengar and then followed Lia up to the Great Porch, which was deserted at this time of the day.

"How much do you remember of Cloud Ruler?" the former Second Blade asked without preamble.

"Enough to moderately despise my grandfather," Lia answered with some (in her mind) justifiable bitterness.

"Only moderately?" Delphine snorted.

"I tend to save my emotional energy for more important things than a dead man. What are you doing, Delphine?"

The Breton woman leaned against the stone wall that stopped people from falling off the Great Porch. "I'm a Blade. The Prophecy of the Dragonborn has begun and it's my duty to see the World-Eater dead."

"Amazing, someone from the order who actually kept their oaths." Lia couldn't help the sarcasm from seeping into her voice.

"I have some faults, but oathbreaking isn't one of them." Delphine's glass-blue eyes narrowed as she studied Lia in her hand-me-down fine clothing. "Passing yourself off as a draconic expert, eh?"

"In the hours before the wall was breached at Cloud Ruler, my grandfather sat me down and made me memorise the particulars of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn and what they would need to do before defeating Alduin," Lia answered flatly. "Farengar knows more about dragons themselves – but I know every step the Dragonborn must take from revelation to gaining the Greybeards' recognition to finding Alduin's Wall."

"Alduin's _what_?"

"Alduin's Wall. Carved by the Dragonguard in the Second Age…" Lia shook her head at Delphine's slightly blank look. "Just know that I know enough to make suggestions to the Dragonborn."

"They'll need more than suggestions," Delphine said dryly. "So, consider yourself a Blade?"

"No." Lia's answer was flat and immediate. "I'm doing this because I don't want the world to end."

A flicker of emotion passed across Delphine's face. "Pity. You might be more than a Legion cook."

Lia walked up to Delphine and got within an inch of her nose. "I am descended from a madwoman and a bastard Priest of Akatosh who couldn't even keep his oath of celibacy," she told the Blade tightly. "That's the truth I had to live, Delphine. I don't fucking care about oaths or Blades or old grudges. I'm more interested in dodging the Thalmor because of the sins of my elders!"

Delphine tensed up but wisely said nothing. Perhaps because Lia's magicka, more developed than her own, was noticeable by the faint scent of ozone that filled the air. One word and Lia would cast.

With a sigh, the magicka dissipated and Lia stepped away from her stepmother. "I assume you're going to approach the Dragonborn after they've gone to High Hrothgar?"

"Damn straight." Delphine relaxed subtly. "I know the Greybeards will send them on that fool's errand to Ustengrav. I'll make contact then."

"Fine. If I'm not in Whiterun, leave a message for me with the Jarl or my uncle." Lia folded her arms against Delphine's slightly judgmental stare. "I've done some pretty unpleasant things to stay alive, Delphine, because of the promise I made my grandfather. Once the World-Eater's defeated, my life can be my own."

"You can't run forever," Delphine pointed out.

"True. But once the World-Eater's gone, I can run where I please." Lia smoothed down her heavy skirt. "Was there anything else or did you want to make a few more judgments about my life choices?"

"I would have expected a descendant of Talos to be a little more courageous," the Breton observed. "But then, I guess you're Arius' descendant after all – happy to work from the shadows and give the orders, but never get your hands dirty. One day you'll have to fight – or die."

 _Been there, done that and wound up mad from the experience,_ Lia thought bleakly as she pointedly turned away from Delphine. _Blessed gods but I wish that one of the loremasters had survived so this shit wasn't my problem._

Once downstairs, she ran into Lydia, Balgruuf's bastard niece and huscarl-in-waiting. "Who were you talking to?" the statuesque brunette asked as Delphine stalked back.

"Someone I knew from Bruma who has an interest in dragons," Lia answered with a sigh. "My uncle's going to be _thrilled_ when he realises she's the one who wants the Dragonstone."

Lydia, no fool, read in between the lines to understand that Delphine was a Blade. "Sounds like there's history between you and her."

"She was my stepmother briefly," Lia said flatly.

Lydia took that as a hint to stop prying, though Lia very well knew this conversation would be reported to Irileth and Balgruuf. "I was actually looking for you," the huscarl said instead. "Are you up for a trip outside the city?"

"Certainly, but why?"

"If you were a Legion cook, you were probably a good amateur alchemist too, and potions are getting expensive. I was thinking we do a sweep of the Hold between Whiterun and Riverwood, gather what we can, and I can do a spot of hunting. If I eat salted venison one more bloody time…"

Lia nodded eagerly. Her main objection to leaving the city had been a lack of someone muscular to hit on things while she cast Sparks from afar. And, assuming Lydia was ignorant of herbcraft, Lia could collect some lavender and blue mountain flowers to brew potions for her particular magical specialty under the guise of collecting them for health and stamina draughts.

"Sure, though if you're sick of salted venison, I should take over the cooking," Lia answered with a wry smirk. "I'm used to working with Legion rations-"

Lia paused as a thought occurred to her. "It's been three days since Helgen and I know for a fact that the Keep's relatively intact. Tullius, if he survives, will wait at least a fortnight before sending Legionnaires to secure what's left of the supplies there – and bandits will move in before that."

Lydia's eyebrow rose and then she nodded sharply. "There's a Dunmer merc and a failed Companion who can be hired for cheap down in the town – Jenassa's good at what she does and Uthgerd's a competent fighter who's desperate to regain her honour somehow. Between the four of us, we should be able to bring back a good deal of supplies, if only the stuff that's hard to get these days."

Lia nodded. "Exactly. Might shut Avenicci up too. And frankly, I want to take a look at the damage a dragon can do to a small town."

The huscarl grinned. "You know how to give us an excuse to get away for a couple days. I don't suppose you know how to kill a dragon?"

"Permanently, you need the Dragonborn. Otherwise, bring him down with arrows and my Sparks spell – Shouting is a form of magicka use – and then hack him to pieces before burying them. And hope Alduin doesn't wake him back up in the next few days."

"Can do." Skyrim Nords somehow managed to combine fatalistic pessimism and fatally courageous optimism. Lia was almost impressed at the combination.

"Good. You go present this idea to your uncle and I'll see what supplies we can rustle up." Lia smiled at Lydia. "I know more about roughing it than you might think."

"I figured you did." Lydia returned the smile and headed upstairs.

Lia smoothed down her skirt and went to the kitchen. Time to brew what potions she could from the herbs and spices available.


	5. Blade

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for imagined violence and fantastic racism.

…

 **Blade**

The run through Bleak Falls Barrow was no more or less troublesome than any other job in a draugr-infested tomb for Irkand and Farkas – and that alone was enough to raise the Redguard's hackles. He'd dutifully taken a charcoal rubbing of the Dragonish inscription in the sanctum of the barrow and now was sitting in the Sleeping Giant Inn, Riverwood's only drinking hole, trying to puzzle out the Dragonstone. It was a map of draconic burials, he knew that much, but the script on it was runic and he couldn't read the modern version, let alone something that dated from just past the Dragon War. Why did Nords have to go out of their way to be hard to understand?

This was the first time he'd been to the inn because normally he chose to make the journey to Jorrvaskr, no matter how late it was. But his bones were aching thanks to the cold, damp conditions of the draugr and the frost enchantment on that wretched king-draugr's blade. So he and Farkas had hired the room for tonight and would return in the morning to collect a well-deserved reward.

Orgnar, the surly barkeep, was as lousy a cook as he was curt with words. Irkand's mouth watered at the thought of a rare venison steak rubbed with salt and elf's ear and seared on Tilma's iron griddle. He should have pushed Lia to apprentice to the woman instead of relying on Balgruuf, but the rabbit had escaped the coop and there was no reason to waste time on regrets.

So tonight was a lumpy straw mattress, indifferent mead and three-day vegetable stew and tomorrow he would go hunting with his husband before returning to Whiterun.

Farkas seemed happy enough with his bowl of stew and mead but then, Irkand's husband accepted life's little problems with the same placid calm as he demonstrated when Arcadia sewed his wounds shut. Many attributed this to his so-called lack of intelligence when, like Irkand, it was really the wisdom to save one's temper for the important matters. Vilkas, foul-tempered and curt, wasted so much energy that it was a surprise he wasn't always exhausted.

"You should trust her." The big Nord's words were soft and calm as he dipped stale bread into the stew to get all the juices from the bowl. "She survived lots on her own without you."

Irkand sighed. "I don't doubt my niece's ability to survive," he pointed out. "I just fear she's taking on more than she can handle in order to prove herself to her mother. And maybe the memory of our family."

"She'll do it or she won't. Until she can't do it, let her be." Farkas finished his meal and set the bowl aside with a burp.

It was good advice Farkas was giving, as good as it was the day nearly six years ago when Lia stumbled into Whiterun under the influence of the Madgoddess. Yet Irkand was struck, every time he saw his niece, how much he'd failed her – and by extension his family.

He'd avoided thinking about what Lia implied the last time they spoke. Their bloodline, or lack thereof, was of no import to the Companion and hadn't been when he was a Blade. Julius Martin had refused to claim the throne of his father – why pursue an uncomfortable chair when true power lay in the ability to work unseen? Arius had apparently felt otherwise and looking back, Irkand could see the pattern in the deaths the Grand Master had ordered.

It was a bitter thing to admit that you'd been blind. Irkand prided himself on looking at the world with a clear gaze, understanding the mix of both honour and pragmatism that shaped a hero of Jorrvaskr. In these days of blood and fire, he wondered if his understanding was really that complete.

As if the gods decided to underscore his failings, the inn door opened, letting in a chill breeze and the second to last woman on Tamriel Irkand wanted to see. Delphine Revanche was still small, fine-boned and sharp-featured… with the fucking dai-katana she favoured strapped to her back. Her greying blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of the neck and her leather armour was well-worn but in excellent condition.

"Farkas, honey," Irkand murmured into his husband's ear. "Do you remember me mentioning the woman who left me for my brother?"

"Yeah," rumbled the werewolf. "Figured I owed her a thanks 'cause it meant you were free for me."

Irkand found himself laughing sharply. His mate always did have a way of putting things into perspective.

Of course, Delphine's eyes found him immediately despite the gloom and a flash of frustration crossed her delicate features. "What do you want, Irkand?" she demanded in Akaviri as she stormed up to him.

"Good food and drink, none of which I'll find here," Irkand responded dryly.

"This is my inn," the Breton groused. "Did Lia send you?"

"No, I finished a job and alas, it was too dark to press on towards Whiterun, so here I am." Irkand leaned back in his seat, letting the light shine on his wolf-emblazoned cuirass. "Farkas, honey, this is my brother's widow Delphine. Delphine, this is my husband Farkas."

"Thanks for leaving Irkand for Rustem so I could marry him," the big Nord said cheerfully as Delphine's eyes narrowed.

"You. Me. My room now," Delphine commanded. No doubt it was for private conversation, but Irkand was in a mood to twit his former lover.

"Is your bed big enough for the three of us?" he asked mildly.

"Oh for-. No!" Delphine scowled and then looked at the Dragonstone on the table. "I'll take that."

"No, my dear. Farengar hired me to collect it and present it to him I shall." Irkand didn't bother hiding the grin on his face now.

"I hired him to hire-." Delphine cut off the sentence, lips twisting in disgust. "Do your vows mean nothing? Lia, I can understand – she never took them, even if she's refused to do so now – but you…"

"My vows as a Companion of Jorrvaskr matter more than oaths to a dead order," Irkand said flatly.

"Our oaths as Blades mean we are to kill all the dragons!" Delphine countered.

"I'm fairly sure service to the Dragonborn comes first," Irkand pointed out mildly. "If they should appear and be honourable, I shall consider how best to fulfil that oath, so long as blind obedience isn't involved. I did that once, Delphine, and they called me the Executioner. Never again."

"You think a few years as a Companion make you honourable?" Delphine snorted sceptically. "No, Irkand – once a killer, always a killer."

Her words struck to the core of him, the part that feared no matter what he did with the Companions, he would still be the blindly obedient assassin who killed without conscience or mercy. Irkand imagined the smooth slide of his tanto from its sheath in his boot, driven upwards into the pale flesh of Delphine's unprotected throat, crimson blood splattering like rain to stain the rough floorboards of this wretched little inn. Large warm fingers wrapped around his forearm and he looked to meet Farkas' quicksilver eyes, sympathetic but warning.

"Maybe so," Irkand conceded to the Breton. "But I have a family again, which is rather more than I'll say for you."

"Enough, both of you," Farkas said in crude but understandable Akaviri. "What's done is done. But Delphine-"

The werewolf fixed the Blade with a chilling stare that reminded Irkand that he was a true predator.

"-You insult a Companion's honour again, you answer to us. That clear?"

The woman stared the bigger Nord down and Irkand bent to reach for his tanto should she push the issue.

"Get the fuck out of my inn, both of you," she ordered. "If I see either of you, I'll bury you."

Irkand smiled, the one that always made his enemies flinch. His former sister-in-law didn't shy away but she definitely looked a bit warier. "I'll make it known that you no longer wish the Companions' business, Delphine. Or our services, for that matter."

He and Farkas rose to their feet, taking the Dragonstone with them. Delphine watched them, hand on her belt-dagger, and Irkand allowed himself a wolfish snarl as the predator within revealed itself.

Perhaps he _was_ a predator but this woman was no friend to his pack.

It had the desired effect – Delphine went pale and stepped back – and Irkand bowed mockingly before he and Farkas went into the night.

The Blades were his past – the Companions would be his future.

…

Delphine poured himself a cup of mead and went into the cellar to think.

Irkand was a werewolf like the rest of the Companions. Until now, Delphine didn't give a damn, but she knew very well the implied threat in the Redguard's snarl. The best of the Blades, the one she'd respected despite choosing Rustem over him for dynastic reasons, was now a beast of Hircine and still thought himself following his own path. No, Irkand was still a killer, only now one who could turn into a furry mass of fangs and muscle.

 _I wonder if Lia knows?_ That the woman had no respect for her bloodline was patently obvious and perhaps a little understandable – Arius was a bad politician despite his manipulative abilities. Growing up sheltered in Cloud Ruler did that to a man. Lia had obviously lived a hard life before coming to Skyrim – and to give her credit, she was at least trying to find the Dragonborn, even if cowardice seemed to be her flaw.

She downed the mead, the only one she'd allow herself, and eyed the few books she'd collected on the Dragonborn in the corner. Best case would be a big Nord who was happy to do what Delphine advised – worst case would be someone who considered the Blades as enemies.

One thing Delphine did respect about Arius was that he worked on a 'need to know' basis. Irkand knew how to kill a dragon and Lia obviously had an idea of how the Dragonborn could defeat Alduin, but it was Delphine, the Second Blade and general of the order, who knew what to do with a dangerous Dragonborn. The Blades planned for every contingency of the Prophecy, including a tyrant with the Voice who was a danger to the world once Alduin was dead.

The Breton decided to try and convert Lia to her cause. The cook was at least _trying_ , whereas Irkand had brushed off his duties to the Blades. Give her a nice safe haven and Delphine's stepdaughter would no doubt do almost anything.

But Irkand… Irkand was a danger.

Delphine reached for quill, ink and paper. It was time the Companions were called to account for their façade of honour. And she knew just the people to do it.


	6. Machinations

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence and fantastic racism.

…

 **Machinations**

It was something of a relief that Lia had left Whiterun for a few days with Lydia and two mercenaries in tow. Whatever she could scavenge from Helgen's ruins would extend his coffers – and in this time of blood and fire, every septim needed to be stretched as tightly as it could. Balgruuf lounged on his throne as Avenicci and Hrongar argued over where the gold he'd assigned to the Hold's defence should be spent on warriors or fortifications, wondering what the gods would deliver next – dragons, Legionnaires or Stormcloaks.

A Jarl never shirked on his promises; Balgruuf knew that from his father's teachings. But promises had been made to both sides before the war began and now he was being forced to choose between prosperity and honour. On one side, the wealth to sustain Whiterun… on the other, the glory of Talos.

Jarls, friend and foe alike, called him gold-hungry. In easier times, Balgruuf would simply laugh it off and point out the richness of his fields and the fat his people and animals wore well. Even before Alduin's return, the fat had begun to wear thin as trade thinned and then halted. He'd concealed the depth of the trouble to his children – why burden them as he had been burdened – yet already rumour was trickling out of Dragonsreach. Soon, the emptiness of his coffers would become known and the warring sides aware he was ripe for attack.

What would have happened, he wondered, if Balgruuf the Lesser had supported Arius' treason? With the Count of Bruma in his hand, Dengeir of Falkreath an ally despite the disastrous match between his daughter and therefore Pale Pass controlled at both ends, the grandson of the Hero of Kvatch could have throttled the land trade to Whiterun and the Reach, thereby holding Hrolfdir and Balgruuf the Lesser hostage. He could have even thrown his support behind the Forsworn, gotten Madanach on his side and promised Imperial recognition if the witch-folk fought for him. It would have taken a stronger man than Balgruuf's father to not fold after such tactics – and through kin-ties, the Ravencrones of Morthal and High King Istlod himself would have been drawn into the plan. Ulfric's father Bjorn, the Bear of Windhelm, would have agreed to follow the sacred blood of Talos and brought Skald the Elder and Korir's sire Ingmar into the fold. Riften, run by the opportunistic Law-Givers, would have joined up readily enough.

 _The problem was that Arius Aurelius was a mystic and mage, not a politician,_ Balgruuf mused as he lounged on his throne. _If he had one competent political advisor…_

The Jarl of Whiterun sighed heavily. He was a politician, raised to be a Steward, and so the ebb and flow of trade was as natural to him as breathing. To him, reading people was as easy as scanning a list of items, and the faces of Lia and Irkand revealed much.

He wagered that Irkand didn't know the half of what his niece had done to survive. The Companion, while intelligent, was not particularly complex: born and bred to _obey_ , above all things, he was a merciless killer whose honour was thinner than he thought. Balgruuf suspected his loyalty to his blood-kin was magically enforced, therefore making him rather obsessive about it – though the pack-bonds between him and the other werewolves of Jorrvaskr would have weakened the geas. It was by grace of the gods he joined the Companions instead of the Dark Brotherhood.

Lia, too, was magically geased – to no doubt _survive_ and use the Akaviri lore her grandfather had drummed into her. Beneath the pleasantly plump exterior and the striking features lay the ruthless instinct for survival, warped by the full knowledge of her grandfather's failure and the burden laid upon her. The Jarl would truly hate to be in the way of her and her goal because Lia had very little honour to subvert, if any. For the defeat of Alduin, the Bruma Nord would even betray her uncle.

 _That the blood of Talos has sunk so low,_ the Jarl thought grimly. _I pray that she isn't Dragonborn…_

The Aurelii were tools, either for his hand or that of the Dragonborn – and Balgruuf had no choice but to wield them.

His hand, callused by regular practice with a sword, slowly clenched into a fist. It was a time of chaos – but also opportunity. And when it came to protecting his Hold, Balgruuf had as little honour as Lia and as much ruthlessness.

…

Sigdrifa Stormsword looked down at the map of Skyrim and allowed herself a savage curse. Balgruuf was planted like a fat bejewelled spider in the middle of Whiterun and effectively controlling the flow of troops and resources in the kingdom. "What's the bet that gold-hungry nithing will lose his 'neutrality' when one side begins to win?" she asked of the air – or perhaps Talos.

"I will grant the gold-hungry but not the nithing. Not yet," Ulfric reprimanded the Shieldmaiden mildly. "Rumour has it he's looking for information on the dragons."

"Of _course_ he is," Galmar pointed out sardonically. "If he presents himself as concerned more about the threat of Alduin than the civil war, he looks good to the Dragonborn, which will entangle the World-Eater's Bane in his schemes."

"He's already got my daughter," Sigdrifa said. "Where else could she go for sanctuary without having to choose a side?"

The condemnatory tone was back in her voice. Lia was descended from heroes on both sides of her ancestry – how could she be such… such… a milkdrinker?

"Of course," Ulfric confirmed. "I believe Lia's safety was the price of Irkand acting as his errand boy."

The Stormsword punched the map to make herself feel better, the sting of bruised knuckles easing the turmoil of her heart. A mother shouldn't despise her daughter, but Sigdrifa had been so startled to discover Lia alive in the bowels of Helgen Keep, working for the Legion, that she took out the old bitterness towards the Aurelii on her. "Arius was a lousy traitor but a competent mage. She's probably under so many geasa that she can't think straight."

"Or a harsh life has brought out the nithing that lurks in us all," Ulfric said with more sympathy than the Stormsword expected.

Only they three knew of the treason that Ulfric performed to stop the pain of torture. Sigdrifa was surprised to find him indirectly mentioning it, in fact. The Tongue had more than made up for his past lack of honour.

"My daughter is an archive of Akaviri knowledge – or at least what's relevant to the Dragonborn," the Shieldmaiden observed grimly. "She knew Cloud Ruler inside and out, including where Arius held the most important records."

Ulfric's eyes lit up and even Galmar looked intrigued. The Blades kept records of the times of Talos and before, times when kings took their thrones through strength and will, not the Imperial-backed dregs of an ancient bloodline. Some of those relevant records included the genealogies of all known Dragonborn from Reman Cyrodiil to Talos Himself. Some of the records covered the ancestry of kings lost to the Nords by the will of the Imperial machine.

The Stormsword smiled inwardly. It was a mother's duty to protect her daughter and show her the way to honour. Until now, Sigdrifa had been remiss in doing so – no wonder Lia had lost her way. And where Lia went, Irkand would follow, desperately clutching to the remnants of an old life better forgotten. Though, to be fair, the girl had been the only one unafraid of the Executioner in Cloud Ruler.

Once Lia had been brave and cheerful. Arius had destroyed that in her daughter. If he wasn't dead and gone, the Stormsword would trap his soul and use it to enchant a warmed pisspot for his failure in keeping the extravagant promises he'd made the Jarl of Falkreath. Dengeir deserved avenging too while he still had some wits to appreciate it.

"Would she cooperate?" Galmar asked, ever blunt and pragmatic. "That knowledge would be useful, but…"

"I'll send my sincere apologies and word of some Dragonish words at Shearpoint," Sigdrifa immediately answered. "I'm hoping that when we talk politely, she'll see the truth of our cause. You _know_ we need outside viewpoints, Ulfric."

"I offered to recruit Delphine but you were… reluctant," Ulfric drawled.

Sigdrifa scowled at him as Galmar snickered. Some wounds were too sore, even after three decades.

"You know that if she is… reluctant, steps will need to be taken," Galmar said after he'd stopped chuckling. "The Imperials can't get that sort of knowledge – or worse yet, the Thalmor."

"Ralof and a longbow will be my insurance," Sigdrifa said grimly.

It wasn't kinslaughter if someone else did the deed.

…

Legate Rikke stared at the General, who'd just handed her the orders from the Emperor. "Is he _insane_?" she asked of the stocky Colovian.

"It's treason to imply that the Emperor is of less than sound mind," Tullius countered. "I fail to see what the problem with the orders is, Legate."

"General, this is nothing short of pissing on everything the Nords hold sacred." Rikke took a deep breath to keep the tight anger from her voice. "The carnificina was brutal enough, though we Nords understand pragmatism better than you think. But to send the Legion up to High Hrothgar? That would unite most of Skyrim behind Ulfric."

Tullius looked unconvinced. "The Voice was banned for a reason. And they can't be too pacifistic if Ulfric used his to kill Torygg."

"Most of the Jarls – even on Ulfric's side – consider that blasphemy," Rikke retorted. She read more of the orders and didn't bother to hide her curse. "Attacking the _Companions of Jorrvaskr_?"

"Only if they refuse to join the Fighters' Guild," Tullius answered.

"General, the Companions are a warrior tradition that is older than the Empire itself. They are politically neutral and Harbinger Kodlak issued a statement that Ulfric's use of the Voice violated the spirit of the trial by combat laws, if not the letter. Even more so than the Greybeards are the heirs of Ysgramor revered by the Nords of Skyrim."

"I know you're sentimental about some of your barbaric traditions, Legate, but Skyrim needs to join the rest of Tamriel in the modern world." Tullius heaved a weary sigh and Rikke realised that appealing to his honour wouldn't work. Not when he had a duty to end the civil war by any means necessary.

 _Make the argument by pointing out our lack of resources._ "Do you remember how devastating Ulfric was at Markarth? There are four Greybeards, each of them knowing three to five Shouts, who make him look like a screaming baby," she informed the General. "We don't have the battlemages, not with dragons flying about."

"I thought they were sworn to use no violence," Tullius said with a frown.

"They have the right to self-defence."

"Fucking Nords," Tullius muttered. "What about the Companions then?"

Rikke smiled thinly. "Every Companion must stand against six foes to enter the Circle. Even their whelps – trainees – are battle-hardened veterans."

"A couple battlemages to set their mead-hall on fire-"

"Would have Balgruuf irate and joining Ulfric out of spite." Rikke folded her arms and looked down at the shorter man. "Did I mention that beside Skjor the Scarred, former Legate of the 3rd Whiterun, Aela the Huntress, and the Hero Twins, the Circle contains Irkand Aurelius?"

Tullius raised an eyebrow. "He's about my age."

"And not slowing down." Rikke smiled grimly. "I have it on good authority that the Companions are the only thing stopping the Executioner of the Blades from joining the Dark Brotherhood and killing every Thalmor he comes across."

Tullius now had a doubtful expression and Rikke moved in for the kill. "May I speak frankly, General?"

"Since when have you done otherwise?"

"I don't think the Emperor issued these orders. Or if he did, then someone else was dictating them." Rikke's gaze was hard. "These orders, General, would inflame the general populace of Skyrim in a way that the White-Gold Concordat didn't. The Civil War would only get worse… and our own soldiers would desert the Legion. We've lost our god, General – taking what's left would utterly destroy the Imperial presence in Skyrim."

The Colovian's eyes narrowed. "Are you implying…?"

"There's only one faction, General, which wins by the continued chaos in Skyrim."

Tullius was a brilliant general and the finest tactician of his generation. But he was also stolid, lacked the ability to read people properly and incapable of deception in social situations.

Rikke was a Shieldmaiden of Talos and they learned to fight with all kinds of weapons, including words… and facts. This was the truth, all of it, presented in a manner that could only alarm her commander.

"I'll put it in my files," Tullius muttered. "Rikke?"

"Yes, General?"

"Keep your suppositions to yourself. We can't fight on two fronts."

The Legate nodded as the Colovian stalked out of the war room with a thoughtful expression, smiling slightly at his back.

She would keep her word. But the Legionnaires eavesdropping had no such orders.


	7. Sky and Fire

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death and violence. Hadvar is adorable and my precious little sweet roll.

…

 **Sky and Fire**

The run to Helgen had been more than successful. The Keep itself was relatively intact, no bandits had camped in the ruins, and the four women hauled enough luxury provisions to extend Balgruuf's veneer of wealth by a good few months. Lia hadn't discovered anything particularly new about Alduin's attack but she believed she had a few good ideas on how to combat a dragon in an urban setting like Whiterun.

They were trundling through Riverwood now as Hadvar was making his farewells to his family. Lia sighed and stopped the wagon she was driving; he'd know where the Alto wine, Colovian brandy and garum sauce came from, but there was nothing to be done. "Need a lift to Whiterun?" she asked as the huscarl and mercenaries stared at her.

"Please," Hadvar said, looking up to the westering sky. "Dare I ask?"

"The Legion's ordinary supplies are still intact and ready to be salvaged," Lia told him defensively. "This is just the officers' personal stuff, mostly Legate Julia's."

Hadvar grunted as he climbed onto the wagon. "Bribing Balgruuf?"

"More like repaying him. He's given me his personal protection while we research the dragon problem."

"If anyone has the time and resources to look into the dragons, it's him," Hadvar conceded after she'd flipped the reins to get the old carthorse moving again. "I'll let Legate Rikke know. She's always enjoyed your cooking."

"She was a childhood friend of my mother's," Lia murmured as she guided the wagon along the switchback path that went past the waterfall.

The Quaestor sighed. "Why didn't you join the Legion? Your parents were Blades-"

"My grandfather was Arius Aurelius and the Emperor allowed his death at the hands of the Thalmor because he was planning to take the Ruby Throne," Lia interrupted acidly, uncaring that there were two women with opaque agendas on the wagon with her.

"Oh." To Hadvar's credit, the stunned expression was momentary. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Lia said with a sigh as she looked towards the black outline of Whiterun in the distance. "The Empire's still a better option than Ulfric and his goons."

"On that we'll agree." Hadvar sighed heavily. He was a good man, one who carried the burden of being a true Nord who watched his kinsmen die over who sat on a throne. "What will you do when this is over?"

"The civil war or the dragons?"

"Both."

"I don't know," Lia admitted. "I've never imagined my life beyond the Prophecy of the Dragonborn."

"Well, the gods won't abandon us," Hadvar assured her with more faith than she herself possessed. "You should look to the future – _your_ future, Lia."

"And what of _you_ , Quaestor?" Lia retorted, turning the question about. "You're already Rikke's right-hand man, I hear. Going to climb up the ranks of the Legion?"

"I only signed up for a term because my father did," the Legionnaire responded calmly. It was a hard thing to rattle or even anger Hadvar; Lia remembered that from Helgen. "That land in Falkreath's still for sale – or maybe Breezehome. Has Jarl Balgruuf sold that house yet, Lydia?"

The huscarl blinked, awakening from the doze she'd fallen into. "No," she said. "Legion Quaestor could become an officer in the Whiterun guard if he wanted."

"I'd sooner hang up my sword if I have a choice," Hadvar replied to the offer. "Maybe settle down with a good woman, if she was interested."

"I'm sure you could have your choice of any single woman in Skyrim," Lia told him, meaning every word. Hadvar was a fine man and a true Nord – but not one of those blood-soaked fools in the Stormcloaks.

"And a few not-so-single ones," Uthgerd noted approvingly as they reached the crossroad where the roads to Dawnstar, Windhelm and Whiterun met.

"Only one woman I'm interested in," Hadvar murmured, brown eyes flicking in Lia's direction.

She stopped the wagon, the horse snorting its discontent at being out at night, and stared at the heavy-shouldered Nord. "Wait, what?"

 _My mother is a rebel, my family was unofficially executed for treason and I'm about two steps off a milkdrinker,_ Lia thought as her hands gripped the reins tightly. _Hadvar, you can do so much better._

The Quaestor regarded her thoughtfully as an awkward silence descended upon the wagon before jerking his head at Uthgerd. "Can you drive a wagon?" At the disgraced warrior's nod, he jumped off the wagon. "Lia, walk with me please."

Lydia glanced at Lia and the Bruma Nord smiled apologetically. "I'll be fine," she told the huscarl. "Get these supplies to your uncle."

Handing the reins over to Uthgerd, she climbed down from the wagon, the rough linen of her plain brown dress – she saved the clothing Balgruuf gave her for court days – catching on the splintered wood before she unhooked her skirt. This was going to be an awkward talk but Hadvar… Well, he deserved honesty.

The wagon trundled away as one of the city guards who patrolled this part of the road came closer to both eavesdrop and warm his hands on the brazier. Lia threw him a dark glance and cast Candlelight to surround her as she began the half-hour walk to the city, leaving Hadvar to catch up.

"I didn't mean to blurt it out like that," Hadvar confessed as they walked past Honningbrew Meadery. "I've… just had a few days to think about everything since Helgen and how you defied your own mother to warn me."

"You're too good a man to die like a nithing," Lia pointed out. "I don't make any claims to honour but the Stormsword… She has selective amnesia when it comes to particular oaths."

"You've got more honour than you know." The Quaestor sighed, his plain features stoic in the magical light. "I… understand if you're not interested, Lia."

"I never thought about it, honestly," Lia answered, hugging herself. "I had one mission: survive, no matter what, until I could tell the Dragonborn about Alduin's Wall and Sky Haven Temple in the Reach. Everything else came a distant second."

She grimaced as bad memories briefly surfaced before sinking back into the subconscious of her mind.

"Have you found the Dragonborn?" Hadvar asked cautiously.

"No. So far, haven't seen a dragon since Helgen." Lia looked involuntarily up at a sky studded with stars and filled by a fat Secunda and thin Masser. "If I hadn't seen those ruins in daylight, I could have almost convinced myself it was a horrid nightmare."

"Me too." Hadvar's gaze was momentarily bleak. "I will have nightmares for the rest of my life."

"I know that feeling," Lia agreed with a shudder. Too many memories for even her to forget.

"The Purge of Bruma is just a story used to whip up the Stormcloaks in Skyrim," Hadvar observed as Pelagia Farm came into view. "But it's a memory to you, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Lia's fists clenched. "Bruma is where decency goes to die and makes Riften look like the epitome of Nord honour."

"And yet you still warned me. I like to think Ralof would have killed me cleanly but your mother…" Hadvar shook his head. "I should have killed one of Ulfric's senior commanders but I couldn't stand to murder your mother in front of you. That you chose to join me instead of her gave me hope that…"

"I've always rather liked you," Lia told him. "I'd just never considered getting involved with anyone because everyone from the Thalmor to the Emperor wants a piece of my hide."

"Titus Mede is old and the Thalmor wouldn't expect you to marry some grunt of a Legionnaire," Hadvar pointed out with a hint of his typical dry wit. "You already know the Legion protects its own, Lia."

"You've a hell of a way of proposing," Lia said with a startled laugh.

"You seem like a practical woman." They were near where the road curved towards Whiterun.

"I have a duty to fulfil, Hadvar," Lia reminded him softly.

"And having a husband in the Legion will make it easier," Hadvar countered. In the light of the brazier, he was cast in shades of ochre and amber, his short hair burnished bronze. Not a handsome man but a good one, a man like all the other Legionnaires who died to protect the Empire.

 _That was where Grandfather went wrong,_ Lia realised as she stared into his ale-brown eyes. _The Empire isn't its leaders but the ones who allow them to rule._

"Sure, why not?" Lia asked, trying to find a bit of humour in all of this. "I guess if I'm going to go kicking and screaming down the gullet of a dragon, I might as well get married beforehand."

 _And having a husband will neatly circumvent some of Balgruuf's plans,_ Lia thought as Hadvar smiled broadly. _I am sick of being a pawn in everyone's games._

"You'll find the Dragonborn and they'll save us all," Hadvar announced.

"I hope so," Lia observed with a sigh. "I really hope so."

…

" _When dealing with Imperials, appeal to their pragmatism and rationality,"_ Legate Rikke always advised her subordinates. _"Their honour revolves around the greatest amount of good for the greatest amount of people, which generally translates to them as trying to keep the status quo and co-opting others into their system. And it's worked – look at how Talos became Tiber Septim."_

Hadvar hadn't missed the trace of calculation in those blue-green eyes as Lia considered his careful arguments. She'd been raised as an Imperial, more or less, even though she'd stepped into the role of hearthmistress as easily as breathing at Helgen. Now knowing the burden on her shoulders as the daughter of Blades and a descendant of the Hero of Kvatch, he understood why she'd missed – or wilfully ignored – the subtle signals he'd been giving her for the past five years.

The Quaestor cracked a smile at her. "So, any more inconvenient relatives I need to know about?"

"My uncle Irkand is a member of the Companions," Lia answered as she adjusted her shawl. "Before that, they called him the Executioner of the Blades."

" _The_ Irkand Aurelius?" Hadvar rubbed his hands excitedly like a little boy meeting his hero. "He told me once-"

The sky above them erupted in flame as a cry shattered the silence of the night. Hadvar drove Lia to the ground as a dragon passed overheard, belching fire at the western watchtower until Whiterun guards screamed.

"Get off me!" Lia snapped with an authority he never heard from the Legion cook. "We need to help the guards!"

Hadvar rose to his knees, trying not to give Lia a doubtful look. "We don't have the firepower to take that thing on."

Lia's face was grim and in it, Hadvar saw the harshness of her Akaviri ancestors, the ones who hunted dragons to almost extinction. "I have some talent for Destruction and Conjuration. If there was ever a time to use them, it's now."

And her left hand gestured, calling forth a graceful flame atronach as she stood up, while lightning crackled between the fingers of her right.

"Use your bow to aim for the wing-joints," Lia advised as she threw a Lightning Bolt the dragon's way, blue-white energy coruscating over a white-scaled hide. "When it's down, approach from the back but watch for the tail."

"Of course," Hadvar agreed as he unlimbered his bow. The dragon turned in their direction as one of the guards bolted for the city to get reinforcements.

"Zu'u fen krii hi nuz Zu'u qiilaanzin hin krilaan," the dragon said almost conversationally as it landed on the top of the tower. "I will kill you but I salute your bravery."

Lia retorted by directing her atronach to throw fire-bolts at the beast, who laughed mockingly and breathed fire in their direction. A Ward snapped up but the edges of the flame licked around it, stealing the air from Hadvar's lungs.

"Fall to me, dragon!" he yelled in defiance of the futile battle ahead of them.

"Niid," retorted the creature with an audible smirk in its voice.

In the flickering light of the burning ruins, Hadvar saw an eye. He nocked an arrow and aimed as Captain Aldis taught him, releasing the steel-headed projectile to land in the dragon's left orb.

"Good shot!" Lia hissed as the monster roared in pain and took to the skies.

Hadvar took the brief respite to wipe the sweat from his hands on his tunic as Lia downed a couple potions with a grimace. Her atronach vanished in a burst of purple-black light and she swore softly, calling forth another one.

"I know, the irony of a descendant of the Hero of Kvatch calling on Daedra isn't lost upon me," she quipped grimly. "But my ancestress wound up becoming the Daedric Prince of Madness. Would you believe that?"

"Explains your talent for Conjuration," Hadvar noted as the dragon sailed back around again for round two. "You… aren't a Daedric cultist, are you?"

"Gods, no," Lia answered disgustedly. "I've only called on my great-great-grandmother once and that was to save me from the Thalmor in Bruma."

She raised another Ward, showing a talent for Restoration, as the dragon strafed them with fire once more. But by the welcome battle cries Hadvar heard, the city guard of Whiterun was on its way.

"Thank the gods," she muttered. "I won't need to raise the corpses of the dead guards to help us."

"Thank the gods indeed," Hadvar echoed. This was a side he never expected the plump, lovely-eyed cook from Helgen to possess.

"I don't practice soul-trapping on sentient creatures and I only raise the dead in extremis," Lia told him quickly.

"Good to know," Hadvar said fervently. It was one thing to have a wife who conjured atronachs but another to be married to a necromancer.

"Come down here and fight, you overgrown lizard!" Irileth, Balgruuf's huscarl, bellowed with more courage than brains.

"Dreh hi lorot zey mey, Nerevarine?" the dragon retorted as it dove to breathe fire once more. "Do you think me a fool, Nerevarine?"

"No, but I think you'd make a wonderful pair of boots!" Irileth countered as she cast lightning magic.

"Use lightning spells on it," Lia ordered as she cast Lightning. "The Thu'um is magic, just a more primal kind, and it relies on the same energy as our spells!"

"Good to know!" Irileth shot back as she continued to pour lightning over the dragon.

Hadvar joined the guards in raining arrows on the beast until it crashed to the earth. After that it was a matter of butchery, two guards dying at the fangs of the dragon, and he started in surprise to see that the Companions had joined the fray without him knowing.

As the battered, crippled dragon stared hopelessly, the Hero-Twin Farkas decapitated it with one mighty strike.

"Dovahkiin? Niid!" With its last breath, the dragon cried despair – as had so many of its victims.

And gold-white light spiralled up and inwards, a gyre that tightened around Lia and gave her an aura of power as she screamed with pain towards the uncaring stars.

The Dragonborn had come and it was the last person Hadvar ever expected.


	8. Confessions

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for fat-shaming, fantastic racism and mentions of cannibalism, death, torture and violence. War breeds traitors, collaborators and those who will do whatever they must to survive – the scars of the Great War are downplayed in Skyrim beyond a few mentions. This story is as much about the scars of the past as it is about the effect politics has on people's lives – but it's also about redemption and hope.

…

 **Confessions**

 _My niece is the Dragonborn. My_ civilian _niece is the hope of us all._

To say that Irkand was stunned was a gross understatement. He watched Lia limp into Whiterun, supported by a plain-faced, heavy-shouldered Nord in Legion armour with whom she was obviously familiar, with Farkas proudly carrying the skull of the offending dragon on his shoulder. Following behind with the whelps, the Redguard was trying to gather his thoughts and words before he blurted out something that would sound doubtful of Lia's ability to cope with the burden of the Prophecy. Vilkas, tall and lean to his brother's giant bulk, was openly shaking his head in disbelief despite seeing the dragon's soul be absorbed.

"Who's the Legionnaire?" Irkand finally asked of the broodily handsome twin whose temper ran as hot as the springs of the Aalto.

"Hadvar of Riverwood," the smartest of the Circle replied. "You don't remember him?"

"Not particularly," Irkand admitted.

"He was the one with the blond friend who wanted to join up once his term in the Legion was over," Vilkas, who never forgot a name or face, said.

Irkand vaguely recalled a skinny twig of a Nord teenager with a blond friend who was about twice the size of him. "I didn't recognise him with all that muscle."

"Maybe we should send a couple of the whelps to Solitude if Legion rations put meat on the bones like that," Vilkas noted dryly.

"I wouldn't punish any of the children by making them suffer in the Legion," Irkand said dourly. "Not even Torvar."

"Wait, are you saying I'm not good enough for the Legion?" groused the semi-drunk Nord from the back.

"He's saying the Legion isn't good enough for us," Athis informed the brownish-blond man sardonically.

"Oh." Torvar mulled over the statement, which took a few minutes. "So, how is the Dragonborn going to defeat the dragons? By eating them-"

Irkand's fist shot up and out, laying the whelp on the ground as the others stared. "That is my _niece_ ," he rasped to a winded Torvar.

"And she's a pretty adept mage in her own right," Ria said as Njada helped Torvar to his feet. "The flame atronach was hers."

Vilkas regarded Irkand carefully. "She needs to toughen up," he said cautiously, speaking as the Companions' senior trainer.

"I will grant that," Irkand said as he rubbed his knuckles. "But I remember when Lia came to us, skin and bones."

"I know." Vilkas' lips pursed. "Will you be leaving the Companions to rejoin the Blades?"

Irkand and Farkas burst out laughing. "Why don't we just say that my husband told the last of the Blades to go shove it," the giant said cheerfully. "'Course, might have had something to do with the fact that I told Delphine that if she insulted Irkand's honour again, she'd answer to us."

"She's already going to meddle in things," Lia said with a sigh. "I'll be seeing her at Ustengrav."

"What's so important about some old barrow just outside of Morthal?" Vilkas asked with less manners than Irkand liked.

"Because it's a place where the Dragonborn has to go on pilgrimage to honour the founder of the Greybeards," Lia answered. "I can't do _that_ , of course, until I go up to High Hrothgar."

"If you know where to go, why not just go to Ustengrav?" Vilkas asked in disbelief.

"Because the Greybeards are going to be pissed enough the Last Dragonborn is Blades blood," Lia countered acidly. "I will need their help, so it behoves me to honour their traditions."

Vilkas had the decency to flush with shame. Part of his duties was to maintain the traditions of the Companions.

"I want you to come to Jorrvaskr before you go," Irkand told his niece. "You need to toughen up physically, Lia, if you're going to go sword to claw with a dragon."

"I'd actually rather hire a couple sellswords and hit the bastards with spells from a distance," Lia answered dryly.

"I'll see if General Tullius will let me come with you," Hadvar said. "It's in the Legion's best interests to help the Dragonborn."

Irkand glared at the Nord. "If you think I'm letting that half-sized Colovian get his hands on my niece when the Empire let us die at Cloud Ruler Temple, you have another thing coming!"

"Tullius isn't Titus Mede," Hadvar challenged, eyes flashing. "Besides, I proposed to your niece shortly before the dragons showed up and she accepted."

"I've known Hadvar for a few years," Lia said in the awkward silence that followed. "Figured if I was going to die, I might as well get married first to one of the best men I know."

"Balgruuf's going to _love_ that," Irileth muttered.

"I'm sorry to have ruined any plans people made around me," Lia continued, her voice bright and hard. "I never asked for this – but well, it's happened. I'll have to do the best I can and pray to Akatosh it's enough."

"It will have to be," Irkand said unhappily. "I don't like the idea of you wandering around Skyrim fighting dragons…"

Lia smiled at him, a flash of the cheerful child she'd been once appearing in that plump, worn face. "I wager I don't like it more than you, Uncle."

"True," Irkand admitted grudgingly. "Go and report to Jarl Balgruuf. We and your… betrothed… can talk later."

He watched the crowd carry her up to Dragonsreach and buried his face in his hands. It was the Executioner's job to train the Dragonborn… but how could he be as hard as he had to?

…

Skjor patted his Shield-Brother on the shoulder sympathetically. Irkand, who was typically an abstemious man, had put away three bottles of mead and stared moodily into the fourth as the second to the Harbinger sat down at the same table. The skull of the dragon Mirmulnir, granted by the Dragonborn to those who actually killed the beast, gazed emptily from its place on the wall above the remnants of Wuuthrad. Farkas had officially entered the realm of legend with this kill.

"Your niece has been granted Lydia as a huscarl and both Jenassa and Uthgerd have vowed to follow her," he reassured the Redguard. "I guess those stories about your bloodline are true."

Irkand smiled mirthlessly. "Or it's a mad bet between Akatosh and the Madgoddess."

"Perhaps both." Skjor shrugged. "I hope you're sober. Kodlak's called a meeting in the Underforge."

Irkand rose – slowly but steadily. The Redguard resistance to poison, which alcohol technically was, served him better than even the beast blood.

It was almost dawn and the whelps had been given a day off as celebration, though Athis was already working on the pells at the far end of the training ground. Skjor and Irkand paused, evaluating his technique, and the Redguard nodded in satisfaction. "He might just be ready to learn the Akaviri blade-dances," was all the former Blade said.

Under the Skyforge, the old magic of Hircine tingled on the werewolves' skin, the totems glowing with an eldritch light. Old magic, older than maybe even the dragons, heated the forge above and shaped the Companions who guarded it below. Here, a Companion died and was reborn as a member of the Circle.

Kodlak, who was slowly succumbing to the straw-death as he fought against the bargain he'd made decades ago, stood tall and proud in the centre of the Underforge. Skjor sighed inwardly, respect for the pack leader warring with the knowledge that Kodlak would defy the tenets of the Circle and force a choice upon them all. He didn't want to fight his alpha, but…

"So your niece is the Dragonborn," the Harbinger said to Irkand without preamble. "And Farkas told me of your discussion with Delphine."

"Hi, Kodlak, how are you?" Irkand retorted sarcastically. "I'm wonderful! My niece will be going spell to claw with the fucking World-Eater!"

"In Sovngarde, if the legends in the Chronicles of the Companions are true," Kodlak said sympathetically. "I don't think the issue will be Lia's lack of ability – she'd half-killed the dragon before we arrived – but it _will_ be her lack of honour."

Irkand's gaze went flat. "Explain."

The Harbinger's gaze was compassionate. "As you know, I maintain my contacts in the Fighters' Guild of Cyrodiil, Hammerfell and High Rock. For the most part, we mostly share news about potential dangers and trade techniques – I'm sure you've noticed that some of the finest warriors in Tamriel just 'happen' to drop in and pay a visit."

"I always thought it was our reputation, but you explicitly inviting them makes more sense," Vilkas said unhappily. "But what does this have to do with the Dragonborn?"

"When Lia came to us six years ago, I contacted the head of the Fighters' Guild in Bruma to get an idea of her history," Kodlak answered carefully. "There's… no easy way to put this, Irkand. Your niece was an active collaborator with the Thalmor and sold out several Blades to them."

Irkand's fists clenched and he said, "Why tell me now?"

"Because until today, she was just a minor Legion cook with a sordid past. Now, she is the Dragonborn who will shake the world with her Voice."

Farkas went to his husband's side, wrapping a comforting arm around the Redguard's shoulders. "Shoulda said something sooner, Kodlak."

"Perhaps, but I didn't want to destroy all of Irkand's illusions about his niece." The Harbinger sighed. "Perhaps Lia is repentant, perhaps not. But I felt Irkand should have the whole story before making any decisions involving the Dragonborn."

"We better go talk to her later today," Farkas said to Irkand, whose face had gone stony, only his brown eyes glittering with rage. "Just remember, you can't hurt her because she's gotta face Alduin."

Then the giant led his husband out as the other members of the Circle looked at each other. "That was cruelly done, Kodlak," Aela said sharply.

"The truth is often cruel, Huntress." Kodlak coughed and spat out some gunk. "Irkand is our best hope for finding a cure. I don't want him to leave us and chase after a nithing with a dragon's soul."

Vilkas scowled. "You mean he is obedient enough to do as you wish! I want to be free of the beast blood, perhaps even more than you, but it should be our choice. Not yours!"

"What of your brother?" Kodlak shot back as Aela and Skjor exchanged glances. This was getting too manipulative for their liking. "If Irkand makes the choice, Farkas will also reject the beast blood."

The Hero-Twin's lips peeled back in a snarl as Kodlak struck his sore nerve. "You should be honest about it, Harbinger. This is… too dishonourable, this sneaking around."

 _Thank you, Vilkas,_ Skjor thought as he slipped out of the Underforge. It would hurt to lose his temperamental brother but… well… Vilkas and the beast blood ill-suited each other. If it was Vilkas' choice, Skjor would respect it and even aid him.

Aela soon joined him. "We should tell Irkand," the Huntress advised. "Kodlak will season his words appropriately."

"He was telling the truth about Lia," Skjor noted unhappily.

"Of course. Irkand told us that Arius set geasa – mind-control spells – as easily as others breathed, so if she had to survive no matter what…" Aela answered. "But I think the Dragonborn deserves the right to speak for herself, hmm?"

"Indeed," he agreed, kissing his mate on the cheek. "Here's to hoping it ends well."

…

Lia was down in Jorrvaskr by noon, clad in plain brown linen that shimmered at the edges with enchantment. "Healing and stamina regeneration," the Dragonborn said with a grim quirk of the lips at Vilkas' raised eyebrow.

"Irkand wants to see you," was all the arms master said, jerking his chin at the stairs which led to the quarters beneath the meadhall.

He'd raged and wept all night and through the morning, allowing himself the release. Now he had a clear mind and a willingness to let his niece speak for herself.

Farkas remained as mediator because, if Lia had inherited her mother's temper, this would get loud and ugly very fast. But the poison needed to be purged and Irkand needed the truth.

Once they were inside the room he and Farkas shared, the door was closed. Lia regarded the grim-faced giant with pursed lips before looking to Irkand. "Judging by that face, you've learned some of what I did in Bruma," the Dragonborn said softly.

"Collaborating with the Thalmor?" Irkand asked, allowing the edge of his anger to sharpen his voice.

"Yes." Lia's admission was stark. "I also worked for the Thieves' Guild, spent some time in the College of Whispers as a necromancer, and sold poisons to the Dark Brotherhood before they were wiped out in Cyrodiil."

"Why?" Irkand was hoping that he could pin the blame on his father somehow, that it was some kind of spell…

"If anywhere in this world is fit to be purged by dragon-fire, it's Bruma," Lia answered quietly. "After the massacres at Cloud Ruler Temple and the Great Chapel of Talos – both of which I survived, incidentally – the remaining Talos worshippers and Blades faded into the mountains and conducted a guerrilla war. After they killed the Chief Justicar of the Thalmor in '95, the goldskins came to the town in force and made the Legion decimate the survivors. We were divided into ten and forced to beat one of our number to death until someone could tell the Thalmor where the Blades were hiding."

Farkas blanched. "By the gods…"

"That someone was me. I'd drawn the short straw, y'see, and would be beaten to death." Lia's smile was mirthless. "They were using the old Akaviri fortress on the Serpent's Trail. Wasn't much of a battle, not when the Legion battlemages tore the fortress walls down with Alteration and the Thalmor raised corpses to overwhelm the defenders."

Irkand regarded his niece with a sick expression. He didn't know what to say.

"The Thalmor crucified the survivors… and then were going to kill me in order to make a point." Lia crossed her arms and looked blindly into the distance. "I invoked the Red Rage of the Madgoddess and when I came to myself again, I was standing over the half-eaten limb of an Altmer on the Skyrim side of the Jeralls."

"Kodlak wasn't kidding when he said you had no honour," Irkand finally said in a sick voice. "How can you justify it?"

Lia's turquoise eyes flashed with anger. "I don't. I'm not going to blame Grandfather for this. But you know _nothing_ of what it took to survive in Bruma. The first winter, we ate what meat was given to us and didn't ask where or who it came from. The only reason we weren't completely purged was because of the Legion."

"But to betray the Blades?" Farkas asked softly.

"Those Blades were little more than bandits. The assassination of the Justicar? They set fire to a building that had civilians in it." Lia's voice was now thick with rage and disgust. "So far as I'm concerned, both sides were monsters who made monsters of everyone who came into contact with them."

Irkand's mind flashed back to Falinesti and the sabotaged water-wheel that drowned dozens of Bosmer – just to rescue a few Nords.

"I… need to think for a while," he finally admitted. "Go to High Hrothgar. We'll speak on your return."

Lia's face grew regretful. "Sure, Uncle. I'm… sorry I never told you before this. But you were living such a good life that I didn't want to ruin it."

"Do you regret what you did?" He had to know.

There was infinite sorrow in Lia's voice. "Every day."

"Then there's hope for you. Just… go. And safe journey to High Hrothgar."

Lia nodded and left. Irkand sat down on the bed and stared at his slim, long-fingered hands – a bladesman's hands, a killer's hands – and wondered if he had the right to judge when he'd done acts more terrible than his niece's.


	9. Power Plays

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of torture.

…

 **Power Plays**

 _Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it._

Balgruuf wanted the Dragonborn on his side as his Thane. Well, he got it in the form of a woman he'd thought easily manipulated and desperate for his aid, a woman who neatly outwitted his plans for her by accepting the suit of a lowly Legion Quaestor. Still, he now had the proof of Arius Aurelius' claims, which meant that his plans could be salvaged. The Jarl of Whiterun had come to the grim realisation that he would have to choose a side sooner rather than later.

The man who approached the dais in Dragonsreach, disgruntled and oh-so-superior in the Breton fashion, was dressed finely and carried himself with conscious arrogance. Balgruuf had no damned idea who he was but garments that rich deserved a personal audience with the Jarl.

"How can I help you?" Balgruuf asked with bored arrogance as the man came within talking distance.

"I am Armaund Motierre." The wiry Breton – who had some Imperial blood in him judging by his features – announced himself as if his name was self-explanatory. When Balgruuf simply stared at him, he pulled out an amethyst and golden pendant in the form of the Imperial Diamond-Dragon. "Of the Elder Council."

"Brave of you to come to Skyrim when a civil war is going on," Balgruuf noted as he rose to his feet. "Avenicci, we'll have wine on the Great Porch."

"The civil war has made it clear that the Empire needs to change its policy," Motierre noted as he brightened, following Balgruuf to the stairs. Irritated with the man's smug tone, the Jarl lengthened his stride until the Breton was forced to jog to catch up. "Given that you haven't joined the festivities and have, ah, acquired a servant with unique abilities-"

"Thane," Balgruuf corrected, irritated on Lia's behalf. "She's a minor noble in my court."

"Of course," Motierre continued with the smoothness of a professional courtier. "As I was saying, you look like a Nord who can appreciate the need for change… and the profits that can come from such."

Balgruuf remained silent until they were seated at the table on the Great Porch with Alto wine in silver goblets. Motierre sipped his and grimaced but wisely said nothing. "Speak plainly, man. We can't be eavesdropped from here."

A lie as an invisible Irileth was already on the balcony that overlooked the porch. But Motierre didn't need to know that.

"I have it on good authority that the Emperor will die soon," the Councillor answered bluntly. "We need to prepare for the inevitable transfer of power across three provinces."

"I see. Does the Emperor know he's dying?" Balgruuf asked sardonically. He was going to play direct barbarian warlord for the moment until he figured out what Motierre wanted from him.

"Does any man truly know their death is near?" Motierre countered, confirming that an assassination attempt would be made on Mede. "You are a powerful man, Jarl Balgruuf, and one reputed to be wise for a Nord. May I be blunt?"

"I'm a Nord. We prefer candour," Balgruuf noted dryly.

"I am second in line to the Ruby Throne behind Vittoria Vicci, who's marrying a Stormcloak noble from Riften." Motierre's voice was blandly disgusted. "The Emperor has wiped out noble families for less treasonous activities. I want to end the purges, end the wars and lead the Empire into a new age of peace and prosperity."

 _You mean turn us into thralls of the Thalmor,_ Balgruuf thought disgustedly. There were lines even he would cross.

"I see," was what he said aloud. "What do you want from me?"

"Frankly, somewhere to stay," Motierre answered. "It will take some time to make arrangements in this, ah, fair land of yours and I need somewhere safe to do so. I have rivals in this country who can't find me."

"Stay at the inn," Balgruuf advised dryly. "Or buy Breezehome. It'll cost you roughly eight thousand septims to fix up properly."

"You are refusing hospitality?" Motierre asked with a frown.

"I need to discuss your plans with my advisors," Balgruuf answered bluntly. "Until then, I need to maintain a neutral front."

"Of course." Motierre sighed. "I will take the inn. I only carry a few hundred septims on me for travel."

"I will send word that you are to be given the finest guest room," Balgruuf promised and then smiled. "You are, of course, welcome to eat up at Dragonsreach any time."

"At least the food will be edible then," Motierre said in relief. "Once you commit yourself to me, Jarl Balgruuf, there will be little beyond your reach. Perhaps the High Kingship and a place on the Elder Council? We need more Nords there."

"We'll see," Balgruuf said noncommittally. Already, he had enough to see this man hung for treason… but he would wait and see what happened.

They made small talk before Motierre reluctantly left for the inn. Balgruuf smiled and set aside the goblet of drugged wine he'd pretended to drink. A useful means of making those of dubious character say more than they should.

"Irileth," he said aloud. "I need you to research each and every one of the potential Imperial heirs. Fittingly, the chess game has gotten more complicated with the introduction of the Dragonborn."

"Of course, my Jarl," the Nerevarine, who was the only person he truly trusted in this world, said from her place on the porch. She and he were friends – and former lovers – from the days of his youth, when her dour, cynical guidance helped Whiterun prosper in the post-War years.

Balgruuf rose to his feet. Time to see how things would play out.

…

The courier had half-killed himself to bring the news to Ulfric Stormcloak and in gratitude, the Jarl of Windhelm granted him meat, mead and a bed for the night. Now his closest advisors waited in the war room for his orders. It was time to start this war in earnest despite the omnipresent threat of dragons in the sky.

" _Lia's_ the Dragonborn?" Sigdrifa's voice was raw with shock and disbelief. Normally as sharp and cold as the Blade they once called her, the Stormsword paced around the room, broad hands gesturing aimlessly as she tried to articulate her feelings. Her analytical nature balanced Galmar's bloodthirstiness while her pragmatism was eased by his huscarl's honour.

"She is," the messenger confirmed. Avulstein had been forced to break his cover in Whiterun to warn the Stormcloaks of the colossal shift in Skyrim's political landscape. For his safety, he would need to remain here in Windhelm until war was joined. "The day after it was revealed, she left for High Hrothgar after speaking with Irkand Aurelius in Jorrvaskr."

"How did he take the news?" the Stormsword asked, collecting herself admirably. Ulfric admired her ability to gather her wits rapidly.

"He wasn't happy and neither was the Harbinger," Avulstein reported. "Something to do with Bruma, perhaps."

Ulfric pursed his lips. "There are rumours that someone betrayed the Blades at Serpent Fortress after the death of the High Justicar of Cyrodiil."

Avulstein frowned. "She practices Conjuration, Jarl Ulfric… and is engaged to a Legion soldier named Hadvar."

"And Wuunferth the Unliving calls the dead of our enemies to serve us in battle," Ulfric pointed out. "If Lia is the one who betrayed the Blades of Serpent Fortress, then Akatosh has given her a chance to atone for her sins by defeating Alduin."

"I'll get Ralof," Galmar said for the first time. "He grew up with Hadvar."

"Good." Ulfric sighed and looked down at the map of Whiterun. "It's time, old bear. Once it's confirmed the Dragonborn is at High Hrothgar, we will launch an offensive for Whiterun. A siege should make Balgruuf more amenable, hmm?"

"I'll place the city under lockdown," Yrsarald announced. "If one trader escapes to warn Balgruuf…"

"Well done." Ulfric folded his arms and looked at his advisors. "I want Hadvar taken alive as an 'honoured guest'. The betrothed of the Dragonborn deserves all due respect and hospitality from true Nords. I'm sure the Dragonborn will repay our concern for his safety appropriately."

"Can we trust a collaborator?" Galmar asked bluntly.

"Remember, the Thalmor broke _me_ , old friend. I will not hold the Dragonborn beyond redemption just yet." Ulfric smiled humourlessly. "Of course, once Alduin is dead and she is still… recalcitrant, we have no need of her. Sigdrifa, I'm sorry…"

"I will mourn the Dragonborn," the Stormsword informed him. "And wish her all due honour in Sovngarde if she has none in life."

Ulfric nodded in satisfaction. One way or another, the Dragonborn would fight for Skyrim, though he would prefer it willingly.

If he, the man who betrayed the Imperial City, could find redemption… then so could Sigdrifa's milk-drinking daughter.

…

"So the Dragonborn is the one who sold out the Blades of Serpent Path Fortress."

Elenwen poured herself some sweet summer wine from Alinor and did the courtesy of offering her informant some too. It was hard to find good help amongst the men of Skyrim and this one was higher-placed than most. Contrary to popular belief, the Thalmor never betrayed those who kept faith with them. With their short, short lives, humans deserved all the rewards their service brought them so long as they understood who truly held the leash.

"The same," the Imperial confirmed, accepting the wine with a bow of the head. He was unctuous, obedient and greedy, the kind of human Elenwen liked as an agent.

"Given that the World-Eater will devour and regurgitate Nirn if we kill her, it would be best to let the Akaviri wench fulfil her grand destiny," Ondolemar, ever sardonic and proud as the Chief Justicar in Skyrim, pointed out in Altmeris.

"Of course," Elenwen replied, flashing the green-eyed mer a filthy glance. Did he think her so short-sighted and foolish? "I might even let the Talos-bred bitch live out her days as a reward, so long as she's properly sterilised."

"How kind," Ondolemar said with mocking magnanimity as he bowed.

"Have some respect," Elenwen told him in syrupy-sweet tones as not to alarm the fool mortal who was her informant. "Otherwise I will need to revise your dedication to our cause."

"I have _exactly_ the amount of dedication the cause deserves," Ondolemar retorted mildly. "Go give your pet his treat, Elenwen. Some of us have real work to do."

The Ambassador scowled as the tall, rangy mer – more muscular than most of their kind with rounded edges to his face but a pedigree dating back to the Merethic Era – exited her solar. Then she pasted on a smile and turned back to her informant.

It was a sad day when the help was more useful than her so-called equals.

…

The deliberate scrape of leather on stone alerted Rikke to the presence of an old, old ally to the Shieldmaidens at Castle Dour.

"Is it safe for you to be here?" she asked of the slender, saffron-skinned womer with the silky iron-grey hair who slipped into the Legate's personal quarters.

"Probably not, but this is a time of prophecy," Ralinde Sun-Golden replied, folding her hands gracefully before her. The Consort of Talos was still lovely, her human blood softening the harsh angles of elven blood, and Rikke resisted the urge to bow before a living saint who could attest to the divinity of the Hero-God.

"Of all the damned people, eh?" Rikke observed with a sigh.

"Damned? Perhaps." Ralinde's expression was grave. "There will be redemption and vengeance before the Prophecy winds its way through – and some things have already been set in motion."

"Tell me." And Ralinde obliged her, for Rikke needed all the information she could to plan the course of the Legion in these bitter days of blood and fire, and the Shieldmaiden of Talos laughed.

Redemption and vengeance indeed, to all who richly deserved it.


	10. Names

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Time to return to Skyrim! Trigger warnings for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of torture. My particular head-canon for my Hero of Kvatch was that she had Paget's disease, which includes thickened, painful bones, hence her temper and ability to take large amounts of damage.

…

The trip to Ivarstead had been uneventful, Hadvar and Lia going in steel armour and plain mage robes respectively, and now they stood at the bottom of the Seven Thousand Steps. He should have reported into a Legion camp but… his wife-to-be was the Dragonborn and he wouldn't leave her to make the dangerous trip on her own.

The Legion had taught the heavy-shouldered Nord pragmatism and actually going to Bruma made him understand the depths to which the inhabitants would go to survive. Lia had been nithing – but if she was the Dragonborn, even unawakened, did that make her actions dishonourable or simply necessary? The Blades had killed civilians who weren't even collaborators.

"We should go before someone realises who we are," Lia observed with a sigh. "I'm pretty sure couriers are killing horses all over Skyrim."

"Yeah," Hadvar agreed. "Tullius will want you to fight for the Legion and your mother…"

"I despise Ulfric on every level," she said flatly. "I'm not much fonder of Tullius. What do you say we move to Hammerfell when I bind and banish the World-Eater?"

"I could do that," Hadvar said as he headed for the steps.

"Wonderful."

It was a long and bitter climb punctuated by Lia stopping at every wayshrine to pay respects to Kyne, the Mother of Men and the giver of the Voice to humanity, and them having to kill whatever predator was fool enough to attack. On the upside, Lia killed her ice wraith – sending one of her ancestors back to Kyne for rebirth – and he braided a necklace from which to hang the tooth as proof. She even had the healed silver-blue scars to prove her adulthood.

He was glad they'd packed camping gear. They settled down just under the overhang where they'd killed the ice troll, Lia proving her talent for magic yet again by using Alteration to tan the hide as she had for the wolf pelts. It would make a good cold-repelling cloak.

The Legionnaire put their bedrolls together, spreading the furs on top, as Lia roasted the meat they'd salvaged from the wolves. Despite the golden ring on her little finger and the mage robes, she looked like any Nord hearthmistress preparing a meal for her household, and Hadvar thanked Talos for the courage He'd obviously granted him to approach the last of His descendants.

"Uncle Irkand just… _looking_ at me like that," Lia suddenly said as the meat was being roasted on a griddle. "He was the family member I was closest to as a child and despite being a Blades assassin, he managed to live with more honour than I did."

"He never lived in Bruma," Hadvar pointed out. "What you did was nithing, Lia, but you have a chance to save the world. And you are a true hearthmistress."

"I'm descended from a bastard Priest of Akatosh who should have kept it in his robes and a drunken brawler with thickened bones who had a bad temper," she answered dryly. "That's the truth I've had to live, Hadvar."

"You forgot to add the treasonous grandfathers – Dengeir's a Stormcloak – selectively honourable mother, sneaky stepmother, assassin uncle and vanished father," he countered. "If you're going to put the worst spin on your family history."

Her generous mouth twitched. "Illustrious, aren't they?"

She dished up the meat, seasoned with a pinch of salt, and Hadvar wolfed down his portion. He could get used to Lia cooking wholly for him.

"Of all the damned people, _I'm_ the fucking Dragonborn," she finally observed bitterly. "Why me, Hadvar?"

He chewed on his last bit of meat ruminatively before answering. "Maybe because of all your family, you know what it's like to be helpless and nithing," he finally said. "Imagine a killer like Irkand with a dragon's mercilessness. Or Jarl Balgruuf, who's descended from Wulfharth himself, with a dragon's arrogance. Or Ulfric with a dragon's Voice."

Lia bit her bottom lip. "You know just what to say, big guy."

"I've loved you for five years," he admitted. "I should have proposed to you sooner."

She smiled and leaned over to kiss him. After keeping themselves warm in the oldest way of men and mer alike, Hadvar felt her soft weight against him as she fell asleep. He would keep her on the path of honour and by his side, Talos willing.

…

They reached High Hrothgar a little after dawn and Lia inhaled sharply. The grey grim fortress was set just below the peak where the World-Eater was banished and where Paarthunax, the black dragon's lieutenant, now laired. They had called her, the Greybeards, but she suspected they'd not be pleased to realise she was of Blades blood.

Hadvar squeezed her hand and she smiled at him before walking up to the door.

Only to see a small white dragon, blue-eyed and frill-necked, land on the roof. "Drem Yol Lok," he greeted in a gentle rumble that shook the building.

 _Peace fire sky,_ her mind translated automatically. A dragon's invocation to not attack each other. "Drem Yol Lok," she replied hoarsely, feeling the soft Words bind themselves around her and this dragon. "Paarthunax?"

"Niid. Tayfunvahzah – Tale-Told-True in your tongue." The dragon cocked his head. "Paarthunax is old and suns himself on the Monahven, the Throat of the World. I fly and speak because… the World-Eater will eat me anyway if you fail, Dovahkiin, so I might as well go all out and defy him openly."

Hadvar released his sword-hilt. "A choice with much honour, Tayfunvahzah," he said quietly.

"Indeed, Hah-Aav-Vah," agreed the dragon. "Your name in Dovahzul – the language of dragons – means 'Mind-Join/Unity-Spring'. Do you mind? It is easier to name you what you are than in the tongue of joorre – mortals."

The Quaestor shrugged. "Lia?"

"It fits," she said with a smile. "So, who am I?"

"Ah-Ree-Lah – Hunter-Essence-Magicka. Or perhaps Kah-Lah-Nah – Proud-Magicka-Fury." Tay tilted his long head. "You are at the cusp of choosing your name, malbriinah, little sister."

 _Interesting that 'Lah' – Magicka – is at the core of either name,_ Lia thought as she contemplated the choices before her. She knew, instinctively, that once she spoke her name – a Shout as all dovah names were – she would be defined by it forever more.

"Hadvar?" He knew her better than herself.

The Legionnaire tasted the names. "One is a mage's name," he finally observed. "The other a queen's name."

"I've never been a queen and never wanted to be," Lia said grimly. "I am Ah-Ree-Lah."

She'd seen what pride and fury could do – and wanted none of that.

"Drem Yol Lok, Ah-Ree-Lah," the little dovah said as he hopped down from the roof and nudged the door open. "I think you will find Aar-Nah-Gaar – Servant-Fury-Release – to be a little happier to speak to you."

They followed Tay inside and within the front hall awaited a stern old man in iron-grey robes edged with dyed hawk's feathers. "Drem Yol Lok," Lia repeated, wanting to show that she meant no ill towards the Greybeards.

"So, the Dragonborn is Bruniik – Akaviri – yet enters promising peace," the Greybeard observed dryly.

"Aar-Nah-Gaar, her path has been a long one," Tay said defensively. "She came not to the Voice through victory and power but through pain and sorrow."

"My name is Aurelia Callaina," Lia admitted quietly. "This is my betrothed Hadvar Bjornsson of Riverwood."

"The granddaughter of Arius Aurelius," the Greybeard said dourly. "You aren't the Dragonborn I'd want, but you're the one I have to live with. Drem Yol Lok, Ah-Ree-Lah. I am Master Arngeir."

"I'm not sure I'm the Dragonborn _I_ want either," Lia noted with a flash of wry humour. "But I'm the one Akatosh decided to give the Voice to."

"You were born with a dragon's soul," Arngeir said softly. "Dragon's blood, descended from the bloodiest butcher and greatest hero of the Third Age. Talos was meant to be a King, the Lord of Men, but he chose to conquer all of Tamriel and laid the seeds for today's unrest."

"I suspect that meeting my clan – ronin Akaviri descendants of the Dragonguard – had something to do with it," Lia admitted starkly. "Give a man with a dragon's soul a group of minions who will do anything he commands and give a group of purposeless warriors a lord who will command anything – well, you can see what happened."

"Your words imply they corrupted each other. Interesting – we'll have to talk more about that." Arngeir's dour attitude lightened a little as three other men filed in. "But come, we must taste your Voice and begin your training."

Hadvar squeezed her hand again before letting her go and wisely sitting on the bench away from the Thu'um. Lia took a deep breath – this was going to be interesting.

…

Hadvar cradled his tankard of mead, listening to the cadences of Dovahzul as he had the lilt of Breton and the clipped phrases of Colovian, as Lia, Tay and Arngeir talked extensively about the morality of having a dragon's soul. She learned quickly – and he saw the flash of alarm in Arngeir's eyes. When she revealed that there was a Blade – Delphine, the old innkeeper at Riverwood – interfering at Ustengrav, the old man looked positively vinegary.

"Whether I like it or not, I'm going to have to enter the civil war," Lia concluded grimly. "Or at least wrangle a truce from those enthusiasts in the lowlands."

"The Bromjun of the Hofkahsejun that trapped Nuu-Miin-Nax will support you," Tay rumbled. "But there are others who will weave their webs around you, Ah-Ree-Lah. The Junsestum – the one your grandfather offended – would harry Keizaal to make it suffer as Sarodaal has. Ul-Frah-Ilik – Eternity-Fame-Chill – would bind your loyalty with the life of your mate."

"Son of a…" Lia cut off the softly breathed curse. "I swear, when this is done, I'm moving to Hammerfell."

"Even the Sahqomunne will have plans when they discover who you are," Tay observed gravely.

It took Hadvar to figure out who the dragon was referring to. "Are you telling me the Emperor's unleashing the Thalmor on Skyrim at the worst possible time?" he demanded. "And that Ulfric will try to take me as hostage?"

"Yes," Tay confirmed.

"When the Legion finds out about the one, they'll rebel," Hadvar predicted flatly. "Titus Mede's gone mad."

"Tullius isn't that stupid though," Lia observed. "Sure, the guy ruins his food with garum – fish sauce with pheasant, for fuck's sake! – but he won't try to pull that shit with Rikke as his second."

"You're a gourmet?" Arngeir asked in some surprise.

"I'm a Legion cook," Lia snapped. "Well, I was."

She rose to her feet in agitation. "Tay, I _really_ hate to ask you this, but how much weight can you carry? If nothing else, I need you to get Hadvar to Solitude – the Legion will keep him safe for me."

Hadvar could kiss her for thinking of his safety above hers. Though he didn't understand why asking Tay to carry him was offensive.

"The Akaviri beat the red dragons of their homeland into submission and rode them as mounts," Arngeir explained, interpreting Hadvar's expression correctly.

"Indeed. Only one remains – Odahviing, the lieutenant of the World-Eater," Tay confirmed. "As for carrying a man, Ah-Ree-Lah, it would slow me down too much. I could carry you both down the mountain, but that is about it."

"I'll take what I can get, Tay," Lia said, scratching his eye ridge affectionately. "I'll give your name and description to Irileth so you can land on the Great Porch."

"Thank you." Tay was enjoying that scratch very much. "I am a very little dovah, but I can play catch-as-can with a big brute like Odahviing."

"You know what they say about size versus brains, excepting Hadvar here," Lia told him wryly before turning to Arngeir. "I'm still going to go through Ustengrav, Master. I respect the Greybeards' ways and the Way of the Voice."

"Thank you," the old man said gravely. "About this Delphine-"

"I'm a better mage than her," Lia said grimly. "I don't _like_ the idea of killing my stepmother, who's probably the only Blade to keep the oath, but if she's trying to manipulate me – I may have no choice."

Her turquoise eyes were hard as diamonds. "I'm _not_ going to be anyone's Second Coming of Talos."

"I'll stay with you as long as I can," Hadvar promised quietly.

She smiled at him gratefully. "I don't deserve you."

"Yeah, you do." Maybe it was arrogant of him, but Hadvar had loved Lia before anyone knew who she was.

"I hope you will speak only in true need," Arngeir observed quietly. "Look at Ulfric-"

"I have. And my mother's not much better." Lia sighed. "Look, can I go to bed? Tomorrow's going to be a bitch of a day."

"Of course, Dragonborn." Arngeir's face was still neutral. "Breath and focus."

"You too, Arngeir." Lia nodded and headed to the guest quarters. Hadvar nodded to the Greybeard and the dovah before joining her.

"You're not alone, love," he murmured as he hugged her.

"I know," she replied, resting her face against his shoulder. "Just… gods. I don't need the Sight of the Septims to know that there's a shitstorm of epic proportions brewing down there and it's centred on me."

He kissed her hair. "It's okay, love. We'll handle it together."

Especially once he got Rikke on his side. It was time that the Colovians remembered who made up most of the Legion's loyal soldiers.


End file.
